Philippians

In the fall of 2003, I was sitting in a chair outside Emory's dining hall by myself. But suddenly, I felt surrounded by people, and I knew who they were: my donors. While I was physically on Emory's campus to share the gospel, my friends were with me in spirit. Their money had sent me, and their prayers were sustaining me. I had talked about "partnering together" in ministry many times, but in that moment, I felt it.

I walked slowly down the potluck tables, overloading my paper plate with rotisserie chicken, a green bean casserole, and a mixture of homemade and out-of-the-box brownies. As I walked over to watch the kids run between the church pews, I realized I'd sat down between a professor at an elite university and a young woman looking for her next acting gig. In this church plant, the only way to identify a leader was to look for someone serving.

When I was a kid, my mom had a tradition in which we would go to the store with her and "help Santa out" by suggesting which presents he should get us. Then she would take those items to the register, check out, and hide them when we got home. But sometimes, I'd still worry if I'd get what I wanted! It was a long wait from the cash register to the Christmas tree.

We lived in an apartment complex next to one of Atlanta's largest churches. Every Sunday, we walked across the parking lot into the giant sanctuary and participated in everything we could. But after a year of trying to make friends, we didn't know anyone better than when we started.

When I was going through a tough season in my life, one friend kept reaching out. I felt weird pouring out so many complicated feelings to him, but I could tell he welcomed it. He loved me in a way that could only be explained by his faith.

In April 2026, Bryan Johnson published his simplified daily routine for maximal health. It takes four hours and forty-six minutes. It includes two types of light treatment, a sauna session, and over a hundred supplements. His company, Blueprint, offers data-driven longevity protocols to help its customers reach an ambitious goal: "Don't Die."

I've gotten angry that corrupt leaders so often seem to get their way. But that's because I had a short-term perspective. I'm guessing Kanakuk's leaders thought they could cover up Pete Newman's fourteen years of sexually abusing children by forcing Trey Carlock to sign a non-disclosure agreement. But they had no idea that Trey's death in 2019 would spur a national movement to legally prohibit the use of NDAs for survivors of child sexual abuse and point the spotlight at how the camp's leaders failed to protect children.

Elisabeth Scott Stam, February 22, 1906 / "For me to live is Christ and to die is gain." Philippians 1:21. It's a short, stark tombstone, placed in the Wuhu Foreign Cemetery in China. Betty was a missionary there, beheaded along with her husband, John, by Communist forces. When the local missionaries received her body, they etched in stone a public witness to the benefits of her death.

"I will have no right to participate in the reconstruction of Christian life in Germany after the war if I do not share the trials of this time with my people." In July 1939, Bonhoeffer wrote these famous words in a letter to a friend. Soon after, he left the safety of New York and returned to Nazi Germany.

Christianity Today tells the story of a pastor who drives two members of his church to work every day. They're legal immigrants who are afraid of ICE. So he turns off location services on his phone, drives the speed limit, and scans the parking lot before they get out of the car. He told reporter Emily Belz, "These are the people God has placed in our lives. What can we do to help them out?"

In March 2021, Emily Hyland went to the elders of her church because she believed her pastor and boss was treating her unfairly because she was a woman. When the elders told her pastor, Dane Ortlund, about the conversation, he got upset. A few days later, he fired her. After five years of legal battles, a judge ruled the firing was illegal retaliation. Dane kept his job and speaking opportunities. Emily had to find a new church and a new career.

A Twitter friend won an award. I thought about posting "Congratulations!" but I was too jealous to celebrate. I thought about my hesitation the rest of the day. It felt like goosebumps that never went away—something unsettling, but this time, under my skin. When the theologian Augustine wrote *Confessions*, it was the first time anyone had tried to tell the soul's story. In it, he admitted that even his good deeds were often mixed with selfish motivations. Twelve centuries later, the theologian Martin Luther read Augustine and gave this tendency its Latin name: homo incurvatus in se. Man curved inward on himself.

"I'm your pastor. Tell me." I looked down at my burger, then out the window of Huey's, looking down Madison Avenue in Memphis. I didn't feel comfortable sharing, but I also didn't know how to say no. He kept pressing for more information until I felt empty. It's hard to follow leaders who demand that we bow to them, but who never bow themselves.

In high school, my Bible study leader did a verse-by-verse study on Ephesians. By the end of it, I was convinced that predestination was true. In college, a Christian philosophy professor persuaded me that God had given us free will. After another summer Bible study, I reconverted to Calvinism. After another year of philosophy, I had another perspective. I read hundreds of pages. None of it taught me how to follow Jesus.

In The Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.S. Lewis, the Narnians arrive at an island at the edge of the world, where they meet Ramandu, a star at rest. Eustace tries to be helpful, "In our world," said Eustace, "a star is a huge ball of flaming gas." Ramandu replies, "Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is but only what it is made of." It's tempting to define ourselves by our biology or our past. But Paul invites us to dream about being like stars.

In 2012, Steven Furtick's book *Greater* debuted at an impressive #4 on the *New York Times* Advice Best Sellers List. But a week later, it vanished from the list. The brief spike suggested there was a coordinated effort to buy thousands of copies at the same time in order to game the system. But Furtick's bio proudly lists him as a *New York Times* bestselling author.

A new church initiative led a friend to quit his job, sell his belongings, and move overseas for missionary service. But then priorities changed, the funding was pulled, and he had to return home. So he came back to his home church without a job and a strange gap on his resume. His return forced the sending church to ask a hard question: was he a failed missionary or an honored brother, whose sacrifice showed us how to live?

I researched how to make a web app go viral. One website recommended adding streaks with competitions, gamification, and badges. I thought about it. But we already judge ourselves for failing God. I didn't want to build an app that adds to the shame.

Every conversation at a national ministry conference in Washington, D.C. felt like it followed an unwritten script. "Hi, I'm so-and-so. How are you? So, how big is your church?" As a campus minister, my answer wasn't that impressive, but the question itself felt shallow. Why were we sizing each other up by attendance records?

I gasped for air and charged around a curve on a dirt path deep in the woods. To my shock, my cross-country coach was there, screaming, "VICTORY! Anyone can run a mile! Go, go, go, now!", windmilling his arms toward the finish line, and flashing his signature 'V for victory' hand signal at me. Instinctively, I accelerated, knowing the end was near.

“One of the girls in our small group came to me after maybe a year or so of listening to people and she was like, ‘I feel like I’ve heard every single one of my worst fears in these stories ... but all I hear is hope.'" It was a riveting moment as I interviewed 'Reese' for the Major Project in my D.Min. program. As she invited her friends to share their testimonies of seeing Jesus care for them in their greatest suffering, others caught a vision for what it looks like to be a disciple.

In March 2007, I flew to the Bay Area for InterVarsity's Asian American Staff Conference. During the conference, they set aside an evening to honor a woman who had faithfully served the Lord for many decades. I realized we were there only because she had paid the price to disciple many of the leaders in this movement. The room was filled with honor. Her friends would have done anything to help her.

"So much death. What can men do against such reckless hate?" As King Théoden looks out at the masses of orcs storming Helm's Deep, and the fallen friends at his feet, he nearly loses hope. Aragorn, the Heir of Isildur, replies, "Ride out with me. Ride out and meet them." Instead of cowering in fear, they charge through the orc line. As the sunlight crests over the hill, they look up and see Gandalf, leading a fresh army of Rohirrim. There was no need to worry when victory was on its way.

Chuck Johnston, my high school Bible study leader, taught me the book of James. I don't remember anything he said. But I do remember his gentleness. I also watched what he did. Professionally, he was raising a million dollars in scholarships for children in low-income communities to attend private schools. Personally, he moved into an inner-city neighborhood. His life revealed the meaning of James to me.

As the starting gun cracked for the 2002 St. Jude Memphis Marathon, two of my closest friends and I jumped out at a 7:04 pace. I gulped in the biting cold air and exhaled in faith, "I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength." But by mile 24, my legs had given out, and Philippians 4:13 was a distant memory.

My wife and I once made a small gift to a cause we cared about. It's been a few years, and we're still getting automated mailers from the organization. The envelopes declare "Urgent Need Inside!" or "Special Message For You: Open Now!" By now, they've probably spent as much on postage and glossy brochures as we sent them in the first place. Our gift became a monthly subscription to a junk mail service.

At the end of every school year, I always looked forward to getting the yearbook. The first thing I did was turn to the back, find my name, and see what pages had photos of me. After I saw those, I'd read through the rest of it. But when I read the final verses of Philippians, I didn't see how it related to me.