That may not sound like a significant decision. But it was.

I walked out the front entrance of our building and started across the parking area. It was so exhilarating, the cold crisp air the deep snow drifts Such an unusual site in Edmonds and the entire Seattle area.

Then I stepped onto the snow. And I fell.

Hard! The pain was enormous.

My right leg was badly affected, I was sure that it was broken. I remember trying to figure out how I was going to get back up and get inside. The pain was terrible and I was still lying in several inches of snow. I hadn’t brought my phone and I knew I needed help.

A man had seen me fall. He came toward me through the snow as best he could and helped me to my feet. With his help, I made it back into the building and eventually into our condo.

I knew it was a bad fall but I had no idea how much it would affect my life. I know now how important mobility is when you are getting older.

I was beginning a journey that would eventually change my life.

For the next year or so, I was almost immobile. My right leg was especially troublesome. It hurt and tingled constantly. Walking any distance became almost impossible. Gradually the pain and tingling in my right leg began to subside. But it didn’t really go away.

And when the problem in my leg finally improved, something remained.

My feet burned like they were on fire and with pain.

They tingled constantly and I couldn’t trust walking because I couldn’t feel the ground.

I began trying to understand what was happening to me. I read about the symptoms and discovered the word neuropathy.

That word became part of my vocabulary, and, unfortunately, part of my life.

There can be many causes of neuropathy. Diabetes is one of the most common. At the time I was pre-diabetic. I still don’t completely know what was the cause of my situation, if it was the fall or if it was a combination of that along with my other health issues.

What I did know was this:

My feet had changed.

And because my feet had changed, my life began to change with them.

I had always been active. I loved playing basketball, tennis and golf. And I especially loved golf. I had already aknowleged that basketball and tennis were not safe for me to keep playing. Golf was something I knew I could do for years to come.

Golf wasn’t just a game for me. It was exercise, friendship, competition and enjoyment all rolled into one. I had played since my 20’s.

But now walking was becoming increasingly difficult.

I kept playing anyway.

I tried to push through the discomfort. I experimented with different things to make my feet feel better. First it was shoes that are designed for the problem. At one point I began using red-light therapy several times a day. It helped with the discomfort, and that helped reduce the pain.

But it didn’t cure the problem.

The burning, pain and tingling were still there.

And gradually, I played less and less golf. Then last year I knew it was over, I couldn’t play any longer.

I remember at my 60th birthday a friend asked me what it was like getting older? My answer. “My list of things I used to do keeps getting longer.” I had no idea how true that statement would turn out to be.

Now at 77 I was telling my friends that I was done. Golf was over.

That was a much bigger loss than I even expected.

Golf had been one of my great enjoyments in life. It was also one of the last significant physical activities I had left.

Now even that was gone. I couldn’t walk far without paying for it with pain for several days after.

My feet were burning. My mobility was shrinking.

And somewhere in the back of my mind was a thought I didn’t particularly want to face: Maybe this is what getting old looks like.

Maybe this was simply what happens when you reach your late seventies.

Golf was a huge loss. There would be more loss too. Long drives in the car were painful for my feet, the idea of flying to places that we loved was gone, I couldn’t imagine what getting on a plane and then sitting that long would do to my feet.

Then came January of this year.

As I wrote about in my last article, “I Was 77 and I Was Scared,” I went to the doctor and discovered that my blood pressure had become dangerously high. I had been taking blood-pressure medication since I was 38 years old, and over the years we had added medications in an effort to keep it under control.

Now my doctor told me something that frightened me.

There weren’t more medications he could safely give me.

That was my wake-up call.

I realized I couldn’t simply keep doing what I had always done and hope things would work out.

So I changed.

I changed the way I ate. I lost weight. I began paying much more attention to what I was putting into my body. I became more intentional about exercise and movement. I began taking several supplements. Doctors had given me no hope for improvement with the neuropathy in my feet. The doctors only plan was to prescribe pain pills. Then I read that in Europe they have patients who take B 12 and alpha-lipoic acid to treat the problem. I started taking those every day.

And something began to happen.

My feet started getting better.

I didn’t wake up one morning and suddenly have normal feet.

But the burning began to diminish. The pain began to disappear.

There is still some tingling especially in my toes, but it is no longer controlling my life.

And then I noticed something even more important.

I could walk. I could walk farther. Without having to stop and sit constantly!

I could walk without thinking about my feet every few minutes.

I began thinking about something I had almost stopped allowing myself to think about.

Golf.

Could I actually play again?

I tried it.

And then I played again. And again.

And suddenly I was doing something I had told my friends I could no longer do.

I was playing golf.

Last week, I played two full rounds of 18 holes. On back to back days.

Thirty-six holes.

And I wasn’t thinking about my feet. I was thinking about my golf game.

I was thinking about my next shot. I enjoyed being outside.

I was walking.

I was tired, but it was a good type of tired, the kind that comes from doing something you love.

And then something happened that I will probably remember for the rest of my life.

I shot a 78. I’m 78 years old. That was an amazing moment. I’m getting my life back!

A year earlier, I had told my friends that I had finished playing golf.

I thought that part of my life was over.

Now, I was playing 18 holes better than when I was 60.

I’ve come to realize that losing your health isn’t always one dramatic event. Sometimes your world simply gets a little smaller, one thing at a time.

You walk a little less.

You stop doing something you love.

You become more tired. You give up an activity. You stop making plans for your future. I don’t want to live that way.

I’m 78 years old. I know there are things I can’t control about getting older.

But I’ve learned something during this journey that I didn’t expect to learn.

Getting older and giving up are not the same thing.

I thought I had played my last round of golf.

I was wrong.

And last week, when I walked off the 18th green with a score of 78 on my card, I wasn’t thinking about my age.

I was thinking about how good it felt to be alive.

I weighed 252 pounds. I was pre-diabetic. I had neuropathy in my feet. My kidneys were having problems. And when my doctor looked at my blood pressure “It’s 190 over 100.” Then he said :

“I don’t have any more blood pressure medicine I can give you.”

I went home to our empty condo. Rose was away on a business trip for a few days. I was alone with the reality of what was happening to my body.

I was 77 years old. And I was scared!

But my health story didn’t begin in that doctor’s office. It began decades before.

When I was 13 and entering high school I was scrawny. Jefferson high in Portland Oregon was huge. The school was known for winning state championships in just about every sport. I was athletic enough to make both the basketball and football teams. The culture of the “ Jocks” was all about heavy drinking. I was desperate to find my people so I dove right in. I did everything to excess! By my Sophomore year I was done with sports. I found the “ stoners” as my friend group. I found new ways of abusing my body to the extreme. Drugs were my life until I was 21 and became a “Jesus people”. I was a physical mess. I weighed 115 pounds. My new life with church people took me back to my love of sports and WINNING! Basketball, tennis and then golf became my obsession. This was a lot healthier than what I had been doing.

I didn’t play to be healthy: I just wanted to be good.

Actually, I wanted to be really good. I needed to WIN!

I was over-the-top competitive. I wanted to win. I wanted to improve. I wanted to beat the other guys. I’m certain people found my drive to win as “obnoxious”.

But I was having fun, and I was winning!

Then, in 1985, my life began to come apart.

Wendy and I had five children by then, I resigned from the church where I was the pastor and we moved to Everett, Washington. For me, it was time to face some of the unhealthy things from my family and my past. I began seeing a counselor. I learned that the extreme way I went into everything was driven by a massive whole inside me. “Fear of rejection”. I learned how this was driving me to have to try and be the best and be the winner to just be accepted.

For Wendy, it was something else.

She no longer wanted to be the submissive pastor’s wife. She started school to become a midwife.

Watching Wendy come alive was one of the great joys of my life.

And she was also an amazing cook.

I wish I could say that her healthy cooking completely transformed me.

It didn’t. I still loved fast food. And little by little, I gained weight.

By 1995, I weighed more than 200 pounds. I was coaching basketball and still playing golf once a week with a group of friends. But I was no longer the skinny guy who could play sports all day. Thankfully I was much more comfortable with myself and didn’t need to win all of the time.

At 38, I had been diagnosed with high blood pressure and started taking medication. I thought this was inevitable. My dad had died of heart failure at 66 so did his brother and then my brother died too in his 60‘s from heart failure. Must’ve been genetics. I accepted my fate.

Over the years, doctors added one medication after another, trying to control it.

Then came November 1995. Wendy was diagnosed with cancer.

Our lives became a hell of doctors, treatment, hospitals and tough news.

My sports stopped. Everything stopped. My attention turned to Wendy and our children. I wanted to be present for her. I wanted to be present for our family.

In August 1996, Wendy died.

She was gone. Our family was shattered.

I was depressed. I was drinking and I ate really bad food. And I gained more weight.

Soon I was over 220 pounds.

Then, Rose came into my life.

I think the story of how we got together still sounds unbelievable. We married and became a blended family with seven children.

Then came another surprise. Rose became pregnant with our son, Alex.

Her two children, my five children, and our surprise child made eight.

Soon Rose and I were co-pastors of our church, and a whole new chapter of life was beginning.

Now, 30 years have passed since Wendy died. This December, Rose and I will celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary. I can’t stop thinking about how crazy that all sounds.

I am deeply grateful for the life God has given us. I want to keep this life as long as possible.

Problem is, I have never taken care of my body.

Then came my wake up call sitting in that doctor's office.

252 pounds.

I was pre-diabetic.

The neuropathy in my feet was painful and I couldn’t play golf anymore and just walking was difficult.

Kidney problems. The side effect of all my medication for high blood pressure.

Blood pressure of 190 over 100.

And a doctor telling me there were no more medications he could add.

When I came home to that empty condo, something had changed.

I started searching. I started reading. I started asking questions.

And by March, I had changed almost everything about the way I was living.

I changed what I ate. I changed when I ate.

I changed what I drank.

I started paying attention to things I had ignored for decades.

And then remarkable things began to happen.

Today, my blood pressure is 143 over 77. I’m reducing how many medications I had been taking.

I am no longer pre-diabetic. My kidney numbers are back to normal.

I have lost 41 pounds since March. Today I weigh 211 pounds.

I walk more than three miles every day.

I’m playing golf again. Twice a week !

And I’m 78 years old. Last week my golf score was the same as my age!

I am enjoying better health today than I had when I turned 60.

The people around me are noticing. Friends are noticing. The family is noticing.

And I’m getting the same question over and over:

“Rich, what did you do?”

That’s why I’m writing this.

Maybe you’re carrying too much weight.

Maybe your blood pressure keeps climbing.

Maybe your blood sugar isn’t where you want it to be.

Maybe you’re tired too often.

Maybe you’re 60, 70, or even 80 and have quietly decided that this is simply what getting old looks like.

I had thought that all of my health issues were just a part of getting older.

I’m not saying I’ve discovered the fountain of youth.

I’m not selling anything. I’m not promoting a product.

I don’t take any of those new weight-loss drugs.

What I did was change the way I was living.

And in my next post, I’m going to tell you exactly what I changed.

I’ll share what I’m eating, when I’m eating, what I’ve eliminated, what I’ve added, how I’m exercising, what supplements I’m taking, and the other things I’ve learned along the way.

I’m not a doctor, and I’m not suggesting that what worked for me will automatically work for you. But I can tell you my story.

Because, for the first time in years, I feel like I’m getting my life back.

Maybe my story can help someone else.

At 78 I don’t know how many more years God will give me.

But I intend to live the ones I have left with as much health, strength, purpose, and joy as I can.

By the way, I had stopped traveling like we had before. My feet hurt too much to try and fly and I didn’t think I would have the energy to enjoy travel ever again.

In April we went to Thailand with 30 friends and family for 3 weeks.

In October we are heading to our favorite place in the world “ Rome Italy” with 20 friends and family for 2 weeks to celebrate Roses 70 the birthday !

Then in December Rose and I will be off to Vegas for our 30th wedding anniversary! Back to where we spent our honeymoon. Rose and I are so thankful for our life together and for the goodness and faithfulness of God !

When we look back over the events of our life we often create stories about the moments that changed us. There are certain events we point to and say, “That was the moment everything changed.” It may have been the day we met someone who altered the direction of our life. It may have been a tragedy that changed how we saw the world. It may have been a conversation, a book, a crisis, or a realization that forced us to see something differently.

These moments become powerful stories because they have a beginning, a middle, and an end. They give us a clear dividing line between who we were before and who we became afterward.

We love stories of transformation because they are easy to understand. There is a person, there is an encounter, and there is a changed life.

But the truth is that most transformations begin long before the moment we identify as the turning point.

The event we remember is often not the beginning of the journey. It is simply the moment when everything that had been happening beneath the surface finally became visible.

This is especially true when we talk about becoming a follower of Jesus.

Evangelical Christianity has always loved the story of “getting saved.” It is one of the most powerful and repeated stories in evangelical culture. Someone was lost, someone encountered Jesus, someone prayed the prayer of salvation, and everything changed.

The testimony often has a dramatic moment attached to it. There was a church service, an altar call, a desperate moment, or a conversation where someone finally surrendered their life to Christ.

And those moments do matter. They can be deeply meaningful.

Even my own story of becoming a follower of Jesus has that kind of dramatic moment.

I can tell you the story of hiking in the woods with my wife Wendy and encountering Jesus in a way that changed the direction of our lives. It was powerful. It was personal. It was a moment I will never forget.

It would be easy to tell the story as if my life suddenly changed on that day.

But that would not be the whole truth.

The story actually began years before.

I can see that my spiritual journey began when I was around thirteen years old. Even then, I had a growing awareness that there had to be more to life than what I could see. I did not have language for it at the time. I could not explain it. But there was a question growing inside me:

Is this all there is?

I was searching for something beyond the visible world. I was asking questions about existence, meaning, purpose, and whether there was something greater than myself.

I lived with these questions and my search for 8 years. Then came the months leading up to that life-changing encounter in the woods. Wendy and I had conversations with friends about spirituality. We talked with friends who had just begun following Jesus. New ideas and questions were entering our lives.

I even had dreams that I could not explain. There was something happening internally that I did not fully understand.

The day I encountered Jesus was not the beginning of my search. It was the moment when my long search found a direction.

We often tell the story of change by focusing on the moment when the change became obvious. But underneath that moment there is a longer story of questions, struggles, experiences, and internal movement.

The same can be said of my journey of deconstructing my evangelical theology.

For a long time, I thought my deconstruction began when I started questioning specific doctrines. I assumed it began when I reconsidered certain teachings about hell, the end times, politics, or the ways I had understood Scripture.

But as I look back now, I believe the seeds of my deconstruction were planted much earlier.

I believe it began in the 1980s.

At the time, I was a pastor and a prophet in the church. Many people respected me. I was teaching faith, encouraging people, and helping others find healing and hope.

From the outside, it appeared that I was a healthy spiritual leader.

But inside, I was deeply conflicted.

I was not the healthy person I appeared to be.

I was carrying a growing secret addiction. I was living with a painful tension between the person people believed I was and the person I was hiding because of my embarrassment and shame.

That tension became impossible to ignore.

I was preaching freedom while experiencing bondage.

I was teaching people about transformation while struggling with areas of my own life that were broken.

I was telling people that the gospel had the power to change their life, yet I had to face the fact that my own life was a continuing struggle and a huge weight.

How could I be a pastor? How could I be a prophet? How could I be someone others looked up to for spiritual guidance, while carrying wounds and struggles that I had not allowed anyone to see?

More importantly, I began asking even more questions:

Would the faith system I had accepted wholeheartedly be able to help me become whole? If that is in question, what else must I look at all over again?

That question was terrifying.

For many years, my identity was deeply connected to being an evangelical Christian. To question any part of that system was to question God and the Bible.

But slowly, honestly, and painfully, those questions became the beginning of my freedom.

Deconstruction is not like changing your mind about a political opinion or adjusting your thoughts about an idea. To question a belief system that has shaped your life, it reaches into the deepest parts of your identity. Our faith is not just something we believe; it becomes who we are. It shapes our relationships, our friendships, our communities, our purpose, and the way others know us. To question those beliefs can feel like the death of the person we thought we were and the frightening uncertainty of wondering who we will become. There is grief. There is fear. There is the possibility of disappointing people we love or losing relationships that have been central to our lives. The journey is deeply emotional and profoundly relational. It is not about finding new answers; it is about finding the courage to be honest when the old answers no longer bring life. Deconstruction is not just the tearing down of ideas, it is the vulnerable and often painful process of discovering what remains. It began because I wanted to find a faith that was more honest, more compassionate, and more connected to the reality of human experience.

The journey was not a rejection of God. It was an honest evaluation for what I had been given by others and if I would find what I needed to continue on.

The same Jesus I encountered in the woods years earlier was still the Jesus I was following.

That is how deconstruction often begins. Questions that cannot be easily explained.

It is not one moment when someone wakes up and says, “I no longer believe.”

It may be a long process of questions. It is a journey that begins with discomfort. It is the slow realization that some beliefs we have carried may not be bringing life, healing, or freedom.

The story we tell about transformation is often centered around one moment.

But the deeper story is always longer.

The person we become is shaped by years of experiences, questions, struggles, and discoveries that happen before anyone else can see them.

My “getting saved” story did not begin in the woods.

My deconstruction story did not begin with questioning doctrine.

These stories began much earlier with a longing for something deeper, a desire for truth.

The Gosple is the story of Death, Burial, And Resurrection. This story is repeated throughout the journey of our life.

One of the assumptions people make about deconstruction is that if you begin questioning evangelical theology, eventually you will lose your faith altogether.

That has never been my story.

In fact, the deeper I questioned many of the beliefs that I was taught, the more I discovered that my faith had never rested on a theological system.

It rested on Jesus.

I don’t often tell the story of how that relationship began.

The reason is simple.

It was so personal and so extraordinary that I’ve often worried people would dismiss it as strange, or unbelievable, or simply impossible.

But if I’m going to tell the story of my deconstruction honestly, then I also need to tell the story of what has never changed.Before I tell you what happened that day, I need to acknowledge something.

For some readers, what I’m about to describe will fall completely outside your experience. You may find it difficult to believe. I understand that. If someone else had told me this story before it happened to Wendy and me, I’m not sure how I would have responded.

The Christian story has always included moments that stretch our understanding of reality. The Gospels are filled with the miracles of Jesus. The book of Acts tells of Pentecost, where ordinary people spoke languages they had never learned. It tells of visions, healings, and remarkable encounters with the Holy Spirit. Throughout church history, there have been seasons, from the Great Awakenings to the Jesus Movement, when thousands of ordinary people reported experiences they could not explain.

I’m not asking you to believe my experience simply because I tell it.

I’m simply asking you to hear it as honestly as I know how to tell it.

By 1969, Wendy and I were fully immersed in the hippie culture.

Our little boy, Matt, was nineteen months old.

I made a living dealing marijuana and LSD. I took LSD three or four times a week.

Like many in the sixties, we were searching.

We were deeply interested in spirituality.

We read about Eastern religions. We practiced meditation.

Zen Buddhism fascinated us. We ate a macrobiotic diet.

We believed there had to be something beyond the material world. We simply didn’t know where to find it.

Several of our closest friends had recently become Christians.

They seemed...different. There was a peace about them that we couldn’t explain.

They invited us to an African American church in North Portland that had become one of the centers for the Jesus People movement.

Wendy and I visited a couple of times. We found it fascinating. People sang with joy. They prayed with passion.

They talked about Jesus as though He were actually alive.

I didn’t understand it. But I couldn’t dismiss it either.

Then came a day in early June that changed everything.

Wendy and I decided to take Matt and go hiking in the hills outside Portland.

It was a cloudy morning. Comfortably cool.

When we reached the place where we often sat quietly to meditate, we settled down while Matt wandered and played nearby.

For a while, everything was still.

Without warning, the clouds opened.

A brilliant shaft of sunlight broke through and settled directly on us.

The intensity of the light was amazing. Both of us were gazing upward.

Then we heard words.

We were not certain if it was an audible voice or just inside us.

Yet somehow the voice was clearer than ordinary speech.

The words were unmistakable.

“Will your life to Me that My will be done, and not yours.”

I immediately turned to Wendy.

“Did you hear that?”

She looked at me and quickly said, “Yes.” Then she repeated the words that I had heard.

Neither of us had said a word before that moment.

We had both heard the same thing.

I spoke out loud.

“Who is this?”

“I am Jesus. Now go and tell people what has happened here.”

I know how that sounds.

If someone else told me this story, I might struggle to know what to think.

All I can tell you is this.

It happened.

It happened to both of us.

And nothing in our lives was ever the same again.

We gathered our things, picked up Matt and started down the trail.

As people passed us on their way up the hill, we smiled and told complete strangers, “We met Jesus on the mountain today.”

We honestly thought they would be able to see something different about us.

Within three months our lives had completely changed.

The drugs were gone.

I stopped dealing marijuana and LSD.

I found a job.

We became part of that African American church with our friends.

Everything about the direction of our lives changed.

Not because someone argued us into Christianity.

Not because we were frightened with a fear going to hell!

Not because we had finally found better theology.

We had encountered the living Christ.

That experience didn’t answer every theological question.

Much of the doctrines I defended as a young pastor, I no longer believe.

Some of the certainty I once admired, I now see as misplaced.

Some of the culture I helped build, I eventually had to leave behind.

I have deconstructed a great deal.

But I have never deconstructed Jesus.

If anything, He has become more present to me with every passing year.

Life has not been easy.

Wendy’s death from cancer nearly broke me. We were together for 30 years, she was only 45 when she passed. I have no answers for what happened. Only questions.

There were seasons of great disappointment. Questions that have yet to be answered.

Through it all, one sentence has remained like an anchor dropped deep into my soul.

“Will your life to Me that My will be done, and not yours.”

I still hear those words.

Now those words have continued to shaped my entire life.

I have not always obeyed perfectly.

I have often wanted my own way.

I have tried to take back control more times than I can count.

Yet every time I have surrendered again, I have discovered the same faithful Jesus who met two young hippies on a hill in Oregon.

When people ask what has remained after all the deconstruction, this is my answer.

Not certainty.

Not a theological system.

Not an institution.

Jesus.

His faithfulness has carried me when my understanding failed.

His presence has remained when my beliefs were being rearranged.

His invitation still calls me beyond my need to control the outcome of my life.

I have learned that faith is not about believing the right doctrines .

It is trusting the One who first called my name.

Nearly sixty years have passed since that morning.

I am an old man now.

I know far less than I once imagined I knew.

But I know this.

The same Jesus who met Wendy and me on that hillside has never abandoned me.

Everything else has changed.

He remains FAITHFUL !

People ask me, “How did you believe all of that stuff you were taught ?”

It’s a fair question.

The answer is that I came to faith with no Christian background at all. None.

I didn’t grow up going to church. I never attended Sunday school. I couldn’t tell you the difference between the Old and New Testament. I knew almost nothing about Christianity beyond a few cultural stereotypes.

By 1969 I was a twenty-one-year-old hippie, searching for something that would make sense of my life. I had looked for meaning in drugs, the counterculture, and the dream that we could build a better world. None of it satisfied the hunger I felt inside.

Then something happened that changed my life forever.

Several of our friends became part of the Jesus People movement. we watched their lives change. They seemed genuinely alive. They had found something that I couldn’t explain but couldn’t ignore.

Then Wendy and I had an experience that was undeniable !

We had an encounter with Jesus on a hike in the woods.

What happened there changed the course of our lives forever.

Our experience wasn’t simply an emotional experience. Something happened deep within us. We walked out of those woods knowing that we had found what we had been searching for.

Looking back decades later, I still treasure that moment.

I have never doubted that Jesus met us both there in that place.

What I later questioned was everything that came after.

Because I knew almost nothing about Christianity, I assumed the people we met as we began going to church knew what they were talking about.

Why wouldn’t I?

They loved us.

They welcomed us.

They opened the Bible with confidence and answered every question with remarkable certainty.

I had no reason to think Christians disagreed about much of anything. As far as I knew, there was one way to understand the Bible, and my pastors and teachers understood it correctly.

So I believed everything.

The Bible was the inerrant, infallible, literal Word of God.

Every word had been perfectly preserved by God through thousands of years.

If the Bible disagrees with science, then science has to be wrong.

If my pastor explained a passage, I accepted his explanation without hesitation.

Questioning wasn’t part of my vocabulary. Faith meant believing.

Later I realized that most of the people in church had learned these beliefs as children.

By the time they reached adulthood, the evangelical worldview had become part of who they were.

They had heard it every Sunday in church. They had learned it in Sunday school.

They attended youth groups where trusted leaders reinforced the same ideas week after week.

Some went to Christian schools or were home schooled where every subject was filtered through the same theological lens.

Most never remember deciding to believe these things. They grew up just presuming that it was all true.

I compare it to learning your first language. You don’t stop as a child and ask whether English is true. It’s simply the language you inherit.

Evangelicalism became the language through which church members understood reality.

I remember sitting in Bible studies where we were told that God created the world in six literal days and rested on the seventh. There was never any hint that faithful Christians had believed differently throughout history. A literal reading wasn’t presented as one interpretation among many. It was presented as the only option.

Evolution wasn’t simply described as mistaken.

It was a direct attack on God. It’s “ Spiritual Warfare”. Anything that questions their understanding of the Bible is an attack on our faith.

Science can not be trusted because scientists were secular and didn’t believe the bible.

If the research disagreed with the Bible, then the research was a lie.

Bible teachers would claim that dinosaur fossils had been placed on the earth to mislead people.

At the time, I never questioned it.

Why would I?

Everyone I trusted believed it.

That’s one of the things people outside evangelicalism often misunderstand.

Beliefs don’t exist in isolation. They exist inside relationships.

The people teaching me these things had baptized me, prayed for me, welcomed me into their homes, cried with me, and celebrated with me.

Questioning their teaching felt like questioning their love.

The worldview extended far beyond creation.

We were taught that the news media couldn’t be trusted because it was controlled by secular people with an anti-Christian agenda.

Public education was secular and anti Christ.

Universities were dangerous places where professors would destroy your faith.

Everything outside the church became a potential threat.

Almost every issue was framed as spiritual warfare.

God and Satan were battling for the minds of humanity.

Culture wasn’t simply changing. It was becoming a battlefield. Trying to destroy our “CHRISTIAN NATION”.

Once you accept that framework, almost anything can fit inside it.

Scientific discoveries become deception.

Medical experts become suspect. Vaccinations should be rejected and feared.

Climate change is a hoax. Immigrants are here to undermine our Christian values.

Political opponents are agents of darkness.

The world begins to divide into two camps.

Those who know the truth.

And everyone else.

Looking back now, I understand why this way of thinking felt so compelling.

It answered every important question I had.

Who can I trust? What is wrong with the world? Why does evil exist?

Where do I belong?

For someone with no religious background, it offered certainty in a confusing world.

Even more importantly, it gave me a family.

That may be the most powerful part of all. Human beings are wired to belong.

When your beliefs become connected to the people you love most, changing your mind becomes incredibly difficult.

You’re not simply risking an opinion. You’re risking relationships.

You’re risking your identity.

You’re risking the community that has become your home.

That is why I have great compassion for people who begin questioning the beliefs they inherited.

Questioning your beliefs is deeply personal.

It can be frightening.

Questions you were taught never to ask suddenly refuse to go away.

The certainty that once felt comforting begins to feel confining.

You find yourself wondering whether trusted leaders could have been mistaken.

If they were wrong about one thing, what else might they have been wrong about?

Deconstruction is rarely about losing faith. It’s about asking questions.

It is about trying to separate faith in Jesus from everything that has been built around him.

That work takes time. Sometimes years.

It requires courage.

It requires humility.

It requires learning to live with uncertainty while searching for what is genuinely true.

There were days when I wished I could simply go back.

Life is easier when every answer seems certain.

But once you’ve seen the cracks, pretending they aren’t there is no longer possible.

Today I can say the journey has been worth it. Not because I now have all the answers.

I don’t. I have fewer answers than I did fifty years ago.

But I ask better questions.

I hold my beliefs with greater humility.

I have discovered that faith is stronger than certainty.

And I have found that Jesus is much bigger than the theological system I once believed I had to defend.

The journey of deconstruction is not easy.

It asks you to risk almost everything that once made you feel safe.

But on the other side, I discovered something I never expected.

Freedom.

The freedom to ask honest questions.

The freedom to keep learning.

The freedom to love people without needing them to agree with me.

The freedom to trust that God is not threatened by my doubts.

It has been a long road. Sometimes a lonely one.

But if I had to choose between certainty built on fear and faith built on honesty, I would choose honesty every time.

As a teenager I carried a deep sense of insecurity. I rarely felt like I belonged anywhere. My family life was filled with dysfunction, and beneath my outward confidence was a young man who felt lost, uncertain, and disconnected.

I drifted into addiction, violence, and reckless choices. Looking back, It wasn’t rebellion. I was searching for something solid to stand on. I wanted to know who I was and where I belonged.

When I was sixteen, I discovered the hippie movement.

For the first time, I found “my people” who seemed to be asking the same questions I was asking. They questioned authority. They wanted peace instead of war, experience instead of tradition, authenticity instead of conformity.

I found my home.

My search for truth became obsessive. I believed psychedelics like LSD could open doors to ultimate reality. Every trip seemed like another step toward enlightenment. I read everything I could find about Buddhism, Zen, meditation, Eastern philosophy, and altered states of consciousness.

I wasn’t simply experimenting with drugs. I was searching for truth.

I found community among people who were also searching, and that community gave me a sense of identity. I finally felt understood.

But something inside me remained restless.

Every answer seemed temporary. Every experience faded. Every new philosophy eventually produced another unanswered question.

I was, at best, a seeker.

Then, at twenty-one years old, everything changed.

I encountered Jesus.

That experience transformed my life. It wasn’t simply a new set of beliefs. It was a completely new direction. A sense of purpose. Along with my wife Wendy and our young son, we found ourselves surrounded by people whose lives revolved around following Christ.

I couldn’t get enough.

I devoured the Bible. I attended every Bible study I could find. I listened to sermons, memorized Scripture, studied theology, and wanted to understand every doctrine I encountered.

At the time I believed I was simply hungry to know God. Years later, I realized something deeper was happening. Yes, I wanted to know God. But I also wanted certainty.

I wanted security. I wanted structure. I wanted a family.

After living with insecurity and instability, evangelical theology offered something I had never experienced before. It gave me clearly defined answers. It explained the world. It told me who was right and who was wrong. It gave me confidence that I had finally found “the Truth.”

And that” certainty” felt incredibly safe. I don’t judge that younger version of myself.

I understand him.

He had spent years feeling lost. Clearly defined doctrines became my safe place. Of course a tightly connected church community became home.

For decades I immersed myself in that world.

I became a pastor.

I taught the Bible with complete conviction.

I discipled others with confidence because I truly believed I was giving them truth.

If you had asked me then whether I would someday question the theological system that had shaped my adult life, I would have laughed.

It seemed impossible.

But life has a way of asking questions that theology alone cannot answer.

Then the certainty I had depended upon began to crack. Wendy having cancer and dying at just 45 years old tore into my safe controlled world like a sledge hammer.

Questioning everything I had come to believe opened my mind and led me into a profound season of reevaluation.

Scriptures didn’t fit together as neatly as I had been taught.

The more I studied certain doctrines, the less certain they became.

Some people I admired began asking difficult questions themselves.

What began as a few uncomfortable questions eventually became something much larger.

It became deconstruction.

That word has become controversial, but for me it simply describes the process of examining beliefs I had never imagined questioning.

What I didn’t understand was that deconstruction isn’t only about theology.

It’s about identity.

When you’ve spent decades inside evangelical culture, your beliefs aren’t just ideas floating around in your head.

They become who you are.

Your friendships are there.

Your purpose is there.

Your career may be there.

Your family relationships are often there.

Your understanding of God, the Bible, salvation, eternity, morality, and even your own worth becomes woven together into one tightly connected system.

To question one belief often feels like pulling on a thread that could unravel everything. And that’s terrifying.

People who haven’t lived inside that world sometimes assume deconstruction is simply an intellectual exercise.

It isn’t.

It’s emotional.

It’s relational.

It’s deeply personal.

You begin wondering if you’re losing your faith, your identity, or both.

People you love become concerned. Friends ask what’s happening to you.

Some try to guide you back. Eventually, some begin treating you as though you’ve become dangerous.

Not because you’ve stopped loving Jesus. But because you’ve stopped agreeing with the system.

You lose relationships you never imagined losing.

Conversations become guarded.

You discover that some friendships were built more on shared certainty than authentic relationships.

There are moments when you wonder if everyone else is right and you’re simply making a terrible mistake.

There are times when life feels frighteningly uncertain.

There are seasons when you feel completely alone.

Change is hard. Losing certainty is hard.

Losing community may be the hardest part of all.

But here’s what I also want to say to anyone walking this road.

You are not alone.

It may feel like you’ve stepped into a wilderness, but there are others there too.

There are thoughtful, compassionate people who still love Jesus but have learned to hold their beliefs with less certainty but with more faith.

There are people who value questions as much as answers.

There are communities where curiosity isn’t treated as rebellion. Where doubt isn’t considered failure. Where faith can breathe.

Finding those people takes time.

Sometimes much longer than we’d like.

But they exist. I’ve met them.

They’ve become companions on this journey.

What I’ve discovered is that deconstruction, becomes the doorway to a deeper faith.

Not a faith built on needing to have every answer.

But a faith rooted in honesty. In humility. In love. In mystery.

Today, I hold fewer certainties than I did.

But I have more peace.

I’m no longer trying to defend a theological system.

I’m simply trying to follow Jesus with an open heart.

And perhaps that’s where authentic faith begins, not with having all the answers, but with the courage to keep seeking truth wherever it leads.

The teenager who searched for truth through psychedelics eventually became the pastor who searched for truth through theology.

Today, I’m still a seeker.

The difference is that I no longer fear the questions.

I’ve discovered that faith can grow stronger when certainty decreases, I hope you have enjoyed my post! please become a subscriber and upgrade from free to paid. It is greatly appreciated.

There was a time when I thought I had almost everything figured out.

I knew what the Bible meant. I knew who was right and who was wrong. I knew how God worked. I knew why people were healed and why some weren’t.

Like many evangelicals, I lived inside a carefully constructed world. Every difficult question already had an answer. Every Bible verse fit neatly into the theological system I had inherited. There was comfort in that certainty.

Then, in 1995, my world came apart.

My wife, Wendy, was diagnosed with cancer.

Suddenly, theology wasn’t something I debated over coffee or preached from a pulpit. It was with us in her hospital bed. It was watching the woman I loved for 30 years endure treatments, hope, disappointment, and pain. It was praying prayers that seemed to disappear into silence.

We believed in healing. We had known people had been miraculously healed. We had preached faith. We had quoted the promises. Friends surrounded us with love, prayer, and confidence that God would intervene.

But Wendy continued to decline.

In August of 1996, she died. I was devastated, along with our 5 children.

There are moments in life when grief does more than break your heart. It dismantles your certainty.

I discovered that many of the answers I had confidently offered others no longer made sense to me. The neat explanations felt painfully inadequate. I wasn’t losing my faith in God, but I was losing faith in many of the ideas about God that I had been taught and never questioned.

In less than a year, Rose and I married. Two years after that, we became co-pastors of a Vineyard church. From the outside, it may have looked as though life had returned to normal.

Looking back, I realize that losing Wendy was the beginning of what people now call deconstruction. At the time, I didn’t even know the word. I only knew that I could no longer pretend certainty where I had genuine questions.

I started reading more widely. I listened to voices outside my own theological tribe. I revisited doctrines I had defended for decades. I asked questions that once would have frightened me.

Some answers survived. Many didn’t.

Around 2002, the word deconstruction began appearing more frequently. People started talking about “the Dones” those who were done with church, and “the Nones”, those who claimed no religious affiliation at all.

For some, deconstruction meant abandoning Christianity altogether.

For others, It meant separating Jesus from the religious culture that had grown up around him.

It meant asking whether some of the things I had defended were actually biblical or simply traditions inherited from my tribe.

It meant admitting, often painfully, “I don’t know.”

That sentence was liberating, and remains so today!

In recent years, this movement has accelerated dramatically. Much of that acceleration has come through the politicization of American Christianity. As Christian nationalism became increasingly intertwined with Donald Trump and the Republican Party, thousands of believers began asking questions they had never dared ask before.

Some looked around their churches and wondered, “When did political loyalty become more important than following Jesus?”

Others wondered why fear seemed to replace love, power replaced humility, and certainty replaced compassion. I began identifying as “A follower of Jesus” rather than as a “christian”.

Many discovered that questioning these things came with a price.

When you begin asking difficult questions, not everyone celebrates your honesty.

Some friends quietly disappear. Others become suspicious.

People who once admired your teaching begin wondering if you’ve “gone liberal,” “compromised,” or “fallen away.”

In some families, the pain cuts even deeper. Conversations become strained. Holidays become uncomfortable. Relationships that once felt secure suddenly become fragile because you’ve dared to question ideas that everyone assumed were beyond question.

There is a loneliness that accompanies deconstruction.

You begin wondering if you’re the only one. You’re not.

One of the greatest discoveries I’ve made is that there are thousands, perhaps millions, of sincere followers of Jesus walking this same road. They aren’t trying to destroy faith.

They’re trying to find an honest one.

A faith that can survive suffering.

A faith that welcomes questions.

A faith that values humility over certainty.

A faith that can admit mistakes.

A faith centered more on Jesus than on ideology.

The journey isn’t easy.

There were seasons when I felt as though I was taking apart the house I’d lived in my entire spiritual life without knowing whether another home existed.

But something surprising happened.

As many of my certainties disappeared, my compassion grew.

As my theology became less rigid, my love for people became deeper.

As my answers became fewer, my curiosity became greater.

As my faith became less about defending doctrines, it became more about following Jesus.

Freedom often begins where certainty ends.

If you’re on this journey yourself, let me offer one piece of encouragement.

Find people who can handle honest questions without rushing to easy answers. Read broadly. Listen carefully. Hold your convictions with humility. Resist the temptation to replace one rigid ideology with another.

Most importantly, don’t confuse leaving unhealthy beliefs with leaving God.

The most faithful thing you can do is tell the truth about your doubts.

Sometimes dismantling the faith you inherited is the very process through which you discover a deeper faith worth keeping.

The road is frightening.

It can also be exciting.

You may lose some certainty.

You may even lose some friends.

But you just might discover a larger God than the one your certainty allowed you to

When I was a young pastor on an island in the Puget Sound.

A woman began attending our church. She asked if she could meet with me. Sitting across from me, she told a story that everyone on the island seemed to know.

Her husband was in federal prison.

He owned the local telephone company. In those days the Bell System dominated telecommunications in America. Bell wanted to buy his small independent company. He refused to sell.

Not long afterward, federal prosecutors charged him with fraud.

The accusation centered on the way long-distance phone calls were billed. Sometimes the actual charge included a fraction of a penny. Like all phone companies at the time, his company rounded those fractions up to the nearest penny. Federal prosecutors claimed that they constituted fraud.

He was convicted and sent to prison.

I began visiting him in federal prison. Apart from his family and attorneys, I was one of the few people who showed up regularly.

Over the next eighteen months we became friends.

When he was released, he filed a lawsuit against Bell. During the proceedings, evidence proved that Bell had played a significant role in pushing for the prosecution. He won his case and received an $800,000 judgment.

He invested much of the money in real estate. Over time he became extraordinarily wealthy.

He was one of the most generous people I have ever known. He supported our church. He funded missionaries. He gave generously to organizations serving the poor.

One day he described how he managed his philanthropy.

“I have three full-time employees,” he told me, “whose job is to vet people and organizations that are asking for help.”

Then he said something I have never forgotten.

“My investments make more money than I can responsibly give away. No matter how much I donate, I continue to get richer.”

At the time I admired his generosity. I still do.

But over the years I have come to realize that he wasn’t simply describing himself.

He was describing a system.

A system in which accumulated wealth naturally creates more wealth.

A system in which money can grow faster than labor.

A system in which assets often earn more than work.

A system many American Christians have come to believe is not only effective, but biblical.

Here’s my question.

When did Jesus become a capitalist?

For many evangelical Christians, the answer seems obvious. Capitalism is viewed as the economic system most compatible with Christianity. Free markets are often spoken of with the same reverence reserved for freedom of religion or freedom of speech.

But that wasn’t always true.

In fact, for most of Christian history, the question would have sounded strange.

The early Christians lived under the Roman Empire. They knew nothing of stock markets, investment portfolios, hedge funds, venture capital, or multinational corporations.

The Book of Acts describes believers sharing resources and ensuring that no one among them lacked necessities. The church fathers consistently warned about the dangers of wealth and the moral responsibility of the wealthy toward the poor.

They were not socialists in the modern sense. Neither were they capitalists.

They simply believed that possessions carried obligations.

The central question was never, “How much can I accumulate?”

The question was, “What do I owe my neighbor?”

Modern capitalism did not emerge until many centuries later. Historians generally trace its development to the growth of trade, banking, investment, and private enterprise between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries.

Eventually capitalism helped create unprecedented prosperity.

It also created unprecedented concentrations of wealth.

The relationship between Protestant Christianity and capitalism became stronger over time. Certain Protestant virtues of hard work, discipline, thrift, delayed gratification fit well within emerging market economies.

The real marriage between evangelical Christianity and capitalism occurred during the twentieth century.

The Great Depression had shaken confidence in business. Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal expanded government programs and regulations. Then came the Cold War.

Communism became the great enemy.

Since communist governments were officially atheist, many Christian leaders understandably opposed them. But something else happened.

A false choice emerged.

Americans were increasingly told there were only two options:

Atheistic communism or Christian capitalism.

Socialism became associated with godlessness.

Capitalism became associated with faith.

Large business interests actively promoted this message. They funded ministers, organizations, educational programs, and public campaigns that linked free-market economics with religious values.

Gradually, many Christians came to believe that defending capitalism was part of defending Christianity itself.

The result is that today many evangelicals can quote Ronald Reagan more easily than the Hebrew prophets when discussing economics.

The Old Testament repeatedly places limits on wealth accumulation.

Every seventh year debts were to be forgiven.

Every fiftieth year, under the Jubilee system, land was to return to its original families.

Farmers were instructed not to harvest the corners of their fields so the poor could gather food.

The prophets thundered against those who exploited workers, manipulated markets, or used wealth to crush the vulnerable.

Again and again God’s concern was directed toward widows, orphans, foreigners, debtors, and the poor.

Then Jesus arrives.

His teachings make modern Christians uncomfortable.

He warns about wealth more than almost any other subject.

He tells a rich ruler to sell his possessions.

He says it is difficult for the wealthy to enter the Kingdom of God.

He warns that we cannot serve both God and Mammon.

Notice what Jesus does not do.

He never endorses an economic system.

He never says capitalism is God’s chosen arrangement.

Instead, he continually asks how we treat one another.

The irony is that many evangelicals who take the Bible literally in matters of sexuality, family, and personal morality suddenly become remarkably flexible when Jesus talks about money.

The church often condemns personal sins while ignoring systemic greed.

We criticize individuals while blessing structures that concentrate wealth and power.

Communist systems have often crushed freedom, stifled initiative, and concentrated power in the hands of the state.

The Bible does not offer capitalism.

The Bible does not offer socialism.

The Bible offers something far more challenging.

It offers a moral vision.

A vision where wealth exists to serve people rather than people existing to serve wealth.

A vision where economic success carries social responsibility.

A vision where the measure of a society is not how rich its richest citizens become but how it treats its most vulnerable.

I still think about my friend.

He was generous beyond anything most people will ever experience.

Yet his observation remains with me.

“My investments make more money than I can responsibly give away.”

That sentence reveals both the brilliance and the danger of modern capitalism.

The brilliance is that wealth can create more wealth.

The danger is that wealth can create more wealth.

The question for Christians is not whether capitalism works.

Clearly it does.

The question is whether economic efficiency is the same thing as biblical justice.

And those are not necessarily the same thing.

In 1989 a youth leader in Holland Michigan began making simple bracelets for her youth group to wear. WWJD The question that spread around the country. What Would Jesus Do? How would He treat the poor, immigrants, refugees and the marginalized ? How would society be organised to best serve those who are the least among us?

Outside, hundreds of hippies were living in tents and makeshift shelters.

Wendy and our baby were waiting for me in a tree house I had built from scrap lumber.

And somehow, Hollywood thought we were exactly the people they needed for a major motion picture. It was the summer of 1968.

I was twenty years old, married to my high school sweetheart Wendy, and the father of an eight-month-old son named Matt. We lived in Portland, where we had both grown up and met in high school.

In 67 I had spent a month in San Francisco during the Summer of Love. I got home just in time for Matt’s birth.

Wendy and I were deep into the hippie lifestyle. I had long red hair halfway down my back, was dealing marijuana and LSD, and was pretty sure I had life figured out.

One day a friend told us there was a movie being filmed near Baker, Oregon. They needed hundreds of extras to play gold prospectors and townspeople. Apparently Hollywood had decided that if you wanted authentic-looking miners, the best place to find them was among Oregon hippies.

The pay was twenty-five dollars a day. That would be about $230 today!

For a young couple with a baby, that sounded like serious money.

So we loaded ourselves, our son, and everything we could fit into our 1962 Volkswagen Bug and headed east.

When we got to Baker, we discovered the movie wasn’t actually being filmed in Baker.

The set was another forty miles up in the mountains.

When we finally arrived, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

The movie company had built an entire Old West mining town in the middle of a National Forest.

There were stores, houses, a church, a hotel, and of course a saloon. It looked like someone had picked up a town from the 1850s and dropped it in the Oregon wilderness.

Surrounding the town were hundreds of hippies already living there.

Most of them were staying in teepees, tents or whatever shelter they could invent.

Not wanting to be outdone, I found some scrap lumber left over from construction and built a tree house for Wendy, Matt, and me.

To this day I don’t know why Wendy agreed to this.

living in a treehouse in the mountains with a husband whose career plan involved selling drugs and working in movies.

God bless that woman.

Every day I got paid twenty-five dollars, a one-pound block of cheese per week, and a huge lunch served in a giant circus tents.

The lunch was flown in by helicopter.

I thought this was completely normal.

One tent was for food.

The other was wardrobe.

Every morning authentic stagecoaches and covered wagons rolled through our hippie camp picking us up for work.

We’d climb aboard looking like hippies and arrive at wardrobe where Hollywood transformed us into miners, gamblers, drunks, prospectors, and townspeople.

Most days they dressed me in an old velvet suit, put a huge hat on my head, and sent me to the saloon.

For the next several weeks my job consisted of sitting at a poker table gambling while drinking wine from shot glasses.

I’ve had worse jobs.

On my first day I met Clint Eastwood, Lee Marvin, and Jean Seberg.

They flew into the set by helicopter each morning from Baker.

Jean Seberg seemed pleasant, but she mostly stayed to herself.

Lee Marvin was drunk. Not a movie drunk. Actually drunk.

One night in Baker he got into a fight with a local cowboy and threw the poor guy through a plate-glass window.

At least that’s how I remember it.

Clint Eastwood surprised me.

He was quiet, calm, and surprisingly friendly.

Between scenes he’d sit down and play poker with us extras.

He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He wasn’t acting like a movie star.

He was just Clint Eastwood.

Even then there was something about him that made people keep their distance.

Nobody messed with Clint.

"The life I was living that summer couldn't have been more different from the life that was waiting for me just around the corner. Just one year later everything had changed! But that's another story."

Yesterday I was playing golf with a couple of friends when a young man was paired with our group. After a few holes, he asked me a question that should have been easy to answer. “Are you retired?” “Yes,” I replied. Then came the follow-up. “What did you do before you retired?” I laughed. Not because it was a difficult question. But it is a complicated one. Most people expect a simple answer. Mine isn’t simple. These days, when I tell people I was a pastor, I never know what reaction I’ll get. Some immediately tell me about a church they love. Others tell me about a church that wounded them. Some assume I’m deeply involved in the version of Christianity they see on television and social media, usually some form of Christian Nationalism wrapped in a flag and a Bible.

So standing on the golf course, I gave my usual answer. “Well, I was a pastor, but I did a lot of other things too.” That answer barely scratches the surface. Before I became a Christian, during my hippie years, I made my living selling marijuana and LSD. After my conversion, my first honest job was working in the forests of Oregon, removing trees and planting new ones. Over the years, I became a house painter, remodeling contractor, general contractor, real estate agent, property developer, handyman, fence company salesman, a therapist, and several other things I’ve probably forgotten. Most of those jobs weren’t career changes. They were survival strategies. Church planting rarely paid enough to support a growing family. For many years, I was bi-vocational. I started businesses because I needed flexibility while trying to build congregations from scratch.

I know what it feels like to worry about regulations, permits, inspections, taxes, insurance, and whether enough work will come in next month. And that experience helps explain something important. It explains why I became a Republican. I realize my political journey didn’t begin with policy papers. It began with slogans. Republicans understood something long before Democrats. People rarely vote for position papers. They vote for stories. They vote for emotions. They vote for simple ideas that fit on a bumper sticker. Think about the slogans. **The Moral Majority.** Who wants to belong to the immoral minority? **Pro-Life.** Who wants to be against life? **Back the Blue.** Who doesn’t support law enforcement? **Government Is the Problem.** Anyone who has ever dealt with bureaucracy understands that one. **Lower Taxes.** Who wants to pay more taxes?

The brilliance of these slogans is that they frame disagreement as something almost unreasonable. If you’re against the slogan, you sound like you’re against morality, life, safety, or common sense. And they worked on me. Especially two of them. Pro-Life. And Trickle-Down Economics. As a small business owner, I believed Reagan’s economic message made perfect sense to me. People with money hired me. People with money bought houses. People with money invested in projects. People with money created opportunities. So when Ronald Reagan argued that tax cuts for businesses and wealthy investors would eventually benefit everyone, I believed him. Many of us did. It sounded logical. Reduce taxes. Reduce regulations. Encourage investment. Prosperity would spread. The wealth would trickle down. At the time, I didn’t see it as a political slogan. I saw it as common sense. Over the years, the slogans changed, but the strategy remained the same.

Eventually, another slogan appeared. **Make America Great Again.** Four simple words. Powerful. Emotional. Memorable. But also remarkably vague. Every time I hear that slogan, I find myself asking a simple question. When exactly was America great? Was it when slavery was legal? Was it before women had the right to vote? Was it during segregation? Was it when Native Americans were being driven from their land? Was it during the era when many Americans couldn’t vote, couldn’t own property, couldn’t attend certain schools, couldn’t marry whom they loved, or couldn’t live where they chose? The slogan works because everyone can imagine their own version of the past. It doesn’t define greatness. It simply assumes it. That’s what effective marketing does. It creates feelings without requiring evidence. The challenge with slogans is that eventually they must be measured against reality. Promises should be evaluated by outcomes. Not intentions. Not speeches. Not campaign ads. Outcomes.

Forty years after Reagan’s economic revolution, what do we see? The wealthy received their tax cuts. Corporations received their tax cuts. Investors received their tax cuts. And then they received more tax cuts. Republican administrations have largely followed the same economic playbook ever since. If trickle-down economics worked as promised, we should have seen a thriving middle class, broadly shared prosperity, affordable housing, and increasing economic mobility. Instead, wealth became increasingly concentrated at the top. Billionaires multiplied. Corporate profits exploded. Executive compensation soared. Meanwhile, housing costs skyrocketed. Healthcare became increasingly unaffordable. Millions of Americans live paycheck to paycheck. Homelessness has become a visible crisis in cities throughout the country. Young adults often struggle to achieve what their parents achieved with less education and fewer working hours. The wealth didn’t trickle down. It flowed upward.

My regret isn’t that I believed in small businesses. I still do. My regret isn’t that I believed hard work should be rewarded. I still do. My regret isn’t that I wanted fewer obstacles for entrepreneurs trying to build something from nothing. I’ve lived that life. My regret is that I accepted slogans without demanding evidence. I mistook marketing for truth. I assumed that because a message sounded moral, it must produce moral outcomes. I assumed that because a policy sounded reasonable, it must be working. I didn’t ask enough questions. And for too many years, I didn’t pay enough attention to the results. The older I get, the more convinced I become that slogans are easy. Outcomes are hard. Anyone can create a catchy phrase. Anyone can reduce a complicated problem to three words and fit it on a bumper sticker. But real life isn’t a bumper sticker. Real life is the single mother working two jobs and still unable to afford rent. Real life is the senior choosing between medication and groceries. Real life is the young couple who have done everything right and still can’t afford a home. Real life is walking through American cities and seeing tents under freeway overpasses while billionaires launch themselves into space.

At some point, we have to stop asking whether the slogans sound good and start asking whether they are producing good fruit. That’s a biblical principle, isn’t it? “By their fruits you shall know them.” Not by their promises. Not by their advertising. Not by their campaign speeches. By their fruits. And when I look honestly at the fruits of forty years of trickle-down economics, I don’t see prosperity trickling down. I see wealth flowing upward. I see a shrinking middle class. I see growing inequality. I see ordinary people working harder and falling further behind. That’s not what I thought I was voting for.

Yesterday on the golf course, that young man asked what I did before retirement. The truth is that my answer is still complicated. I was a pastor. A contractor. A painter. A businessman. A church planter. A real estate agent. A husband. A father. A grandfather. And like many Americans, I was also a citizen trying to make sense of the world. Sometimes I got it right. Sometimes I got it wrong. This is one of the places where I got it wrong.

The question is not whether you agree with me. The question is whether you are willing to examine the slogans that have shaped your own thinking. What beliefs have you inherited without questioning? What political messages have you accepted because they sounded right? What assumptions have you carried for years without examining their results?

If we continue making decisions based on fear, branding, tribal loyalty, and political marketing, we’ll keep getting more of what we’ve already got. But if enough of us are willing to ask harder questions, to follow evidence instead of slogans, results instead of rhetoric, truth instead of tribe, then perhaps another future is possible. I wish I had started asking those questions sooner. I’m asking them now. What about you? If you enjoy reading these articles consider upgrading to being a PAID SUBSCRIBER

The human mind is great at justification. When you are trapped inside a rigid theological movement, you can convince yourself that almost anything is a manifestation of love. You can look at a trembling child, feel the heat of your own unhealed generational trauma rising in your chest, and call it “godly discipline.” Christian Nationalism desires to control every aspect of American society!

Of all the things I left behind when I finally escaped the grip of Christian Nationalism and the Moral Majority, this is the one that stays with me. This is the shadow that doesn’t fade.

In the first two parts of this series, I talked about how I was drawn into the movement as a young, impressionable pastor, and how the suffocating doctrine of male headship nearly broke my marriage until my wife finally said, no more. But as devastating as the movement’s views on marriage were, its philosophy on parenting was worse.

My greatest regret from my years in that world is not the politics, the absolute certainty, or the rigid theology. It is the way I raised my children.

And to understand how I got there, you have to understand the toxic intersection of a movement led by Dr. James Dobson, and a young father who desperately needed therapy, not a rule book.

Dr. James Dobson was the undisputed architect of the evangelical home. He founded Focus on the Family in 1977, right as the Moral Majority was mobilizing. He was a Christian Nationalist and one of the founders of the culture war narrative. He was a licensed child psychologist. To a young pastor like me, trying to navigate leadership and family at the same time, his credentials lent him an air of absolute unquestionable authority.

Dobson’s books, Dare to Discipline and The Strong-Willed Child, were the rule book on parenting. His teachings tied male headship, female submission, and strict corporal punishment into a tight, neat bow.

But beneath the professional vocabulary and the calm, reassuring radio voice, the core philosophy was brutal. Dobson taught that a child’s will was a fortress of rebellion that had to be conquered. The goal of parenting wasn’t guidance; it was total submission. He explicitly advocated for the use of the rod, for spanking, to “break the stubborn will” of the child before it could take root.

In our circles, if your child wasn’t perfectly compliant, it wasn’t seen as a normal stage of development; it was a spiritual failure on the part of the father. The pressure was immense. You understood that if you spared the rod, you hated your child. You were told that spanking them was an act of love that mirrored God’s discipline of His church. Some strong-willed children absolutely demand to be spanked, and their wishes should be granted.” Here are quotes from Dr.James Dobson:

“Two or three stinging strokes on the legs or buttocks with a switch are usually sufficient to emphasize the point, ‘You must obey me.’”

“Pain is a marvelous purifier.”

“The spanking should be of sufficient magnitude to cause the child to cry genuinely.”

I swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. Because the truth was, I was terrified of failing. And more than that, I was working with a deeply broken blueprint of my own.

The tragic irony of my obsession with Dobson’s rules was that I had absolutely no healthy framework to compare them to. My parents had zero training in how to raise children. They operated entirely on instinct, and their instincts were fueled by anger and neglect.

My father was a big man. Most of the time, he was calm, passive, fading into the background of the house. But every so often, the pressure would build, and he would explode into a terrifying rage To a small child at 5 years old a grown man is a giant who appears to be 12 feet tall, who is yelling threats at you. You never knew what would trigger it, so you learned to try and stay out of his way.

My mother, on the other hand, was a constant, simmering presence of hostility. She was entirely un-nurturing. Her weapon of choice wasn’t her hands, though she would slap me across the face when her temper boiled over; her real weapon was her tongue. The words she used cut straight to the bone.

“You stupid idiot,” she would yell, her voice dripping with contempt. “What is wrong with you? Can’t you do anything right? You f##king idiot.”

On and on it went, day after day. Long after the sting of a slapped cheek faded, those words remained, carving deep grooves of shame into my young identity. I hated it. I left home as early as I possibly could, turning to alcohol and drugs to a numb sense of worthlessness that my childhood had handed me.

But when I became a Christian, and entered the ministry, I carried that unhealed boy inside me. I had never seen a parent pull a child close to comfort them after a mistake. I had never seen a father de-escalate a conflict with patience. I only knew rage, and I only knew shame.

When I began having children, the ghosts of my past haunted me. I found myself falling back into the old, familiar ruts of my upbringing. When the kids pushed boundaries I felt that familiar heat rising. I used shaming words. I let anger dictate my tone.

And then, the church handed me James Dobsons books.

The combination was catastrophic. If I had just been dealing with my own damaged past, I might have recognized my anger as a problem sooner. But Dobson’s theology gave my dysfunction a divine mandate. It took my inherited tendency toward control and compounded it. It told me that my anger wasn’t an unhealed wound; it was “righteous indignation.” It told me that my need for absolute control wasn’t a trauma response; it was my duty as the spiritual head of the home.

I loved my kids completely. Let me be clear about that: I loved them with everything I had. I was a highly involved dad. I didn’t sit on the sidelines. I was at every school event, I coached their sports teams, and I wanted desperately to give them a better life than the one I had.

But the mixture of the Moral Majority’s male headship doctrine, Dobson’s mandate for total child obedience, and my own childhood trauma formed a terrible, toxic cocktail. I became a harsh, controlling parent. I demanded a level of perfection and compliance that no child could reasonably provide. When they faltered, I didn’t see a child who needed help; I saw rebellion that needed to be crushed.

What I needed was intensive therapy. What I got instead was a pile of parenting books that validated my worst instincts.

The breaking point didn’t happen overnight, but rather through a slow, painful unraveling of the system I had built. As the years went on, the rigid walls of the movement began to crack. My wife’s refusal to accept the subjugation of male headship had forced me to look in the mirror regarding our marriage, but the hardest mirror to look into was the one that reflected my relationship with my kids.

I started to look at their eyes. I saw the same look in their eyes that I had directed at my own parents decades earlier. Fear.

That realization was a knife to the heart. I had entered the ministry to bring the love of God to the world, and I had built a home where my own children had to walk on eggshells around me.

I sought help. I got into therapy. Sitting in that therapist’s office, the tightly wound knots of my life began to untie. I had to face my mother’s cruel words. I had to face my father’s terrifying passivity and rage. I had to mourn the boy who had been called a “f##king idiot” before I could learn how to speak to my own sons and daughter with gentleness.

I finally got free from that unhealthy, toxic style of parenting. I learned how to apologize to my children. I learned to lay down the rod, to step down from the throne of male headship, and to just be a father who listens.

But freedom, I learned, comes with a cost.

By the time I finally broke free and began to heal, the clock had already run its course on much of their childhoods. I had five children. By the time the dust settled and the theology of control was fully dismantled in our home, my oldest was eighteen and my youngest was five.

Today, my children are adults. And the hardest part of my life now is sitting with the knowledge that they are all still trying to work through the pain of growing up with a father who did not parent them well.

The scars of that movement aren’t just political talking points for me. They aren’t just abstract theological debates about the legacy of the Moral Majority or the cultural impact of Focus on the Family. They are real, living wounds carried by the people I love most in this world.

I watch them navigate their own lives, their own relationships, and their own anxieties, and I can see the fingerprints of my rigidity on their shoulders. I can hear the echoes of the pressure I put on them.

To anyone who grew up in that era, or anyone who is currently sitting in a church where parenting is taught as a war of wills, I want to say this: a child’s will does not need to be broken; it needs to be held. Control is an illusion born of fear.

I learned that lesson too late. And while grace is real, and healing is possible, my greatest regret will always be the years my children spent waiting for their father to finally grow up. If you enjoy my substack articles I hope you will become a subscriber. Becoming a paid subscriber is greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading and please leave a comment.

On mornings when the mist hangs low over the Puget Sound, thick and gray like wool, you can walk for miles along the shoreline and feel as though you are the only soul left on earth. I walk those miles now every day, two, sometimes three miles at a time. It has become a ritual of grounding, a quiet rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other. With every step, I feel the steady return of physical stamina, a strength hard-won and late-found.

But I am not just walking toward health. I am walking away from an old ghost.

If you had met me decades ago, you would have encountered a man living in an entirely different universe. I was a man behind a pulpit, cloaked in the weight of spiritual authority. I was a pastor, and more than that, within our movement I was recognized as a prophet.

To understand the gravity of that word, you have to understand the world that formed me.

My early biblical training took place within a specific corner of the Pentecostal movement. This was long before the media-savvy “New Apostolic Reformation”. What we lived inside was the early architecture of that world, raw, unpolished, and utterly serious.

We didn’t simply preach salvation. We preached an entire worldview built on hierarchy, authority, and male headship. The movement carried a form of Christian Nationalism, a conviction that the kingdom of God was meant to rule visibly on earth through aligned structures of power, beginning with the family, extending through the church, and eventually shaping society itself.

Everything was about vertical alignment.

We drew diagrams of authority that looked like pyramids or rows of umbrellas in a storm. At the top stood God the Father. Beneath Him, the Son, eternally subordinate in function. Beneath the Son came earthly authority structures: government, church elders, husbands, wives, and children.

The system was presented as the divine order.

We taught that the universe operated according to strict laws of authority and submission. If a man properly submitted to church leadership, he received spiritual authority over his home. Within that home, the wife was expected to submit to his headship, and the children were expected to obey without question. This arrangement was often called “the covering.”

If everyone remained properly aligned beneath the chain of command, the family supposedly lived under God’s protection, safe from spiritual attack, moral collapse, financial ruin, and chaos. Constant spiritual warfare was happening all around us trying to undermine Gods Kingdom order.

To question leadership was not treated as disagreement. It was rebellion. And rebellion, we reminded people, was “as the sin of witchcraft.” To step outside male authority was to step outside divine protection itself. The imagery was terrifying: leave the covering and you would find yourself exposed in a hostile spiritual wilderness, vulnerable to demonic attack. Stay under the authority of Gods chosen umbrella to be safe from Satan

As a prophet in that movement, my voice helped reinforce this system.

When I spoke from the platform, people listened because they believed I carried words from God. I looked out over congregations filled with exhausted women trying harder to submit, anxious men crumbling beneath impossible patriarchal expectations, and children whose inner lives were quietly being crushed in the name of divine order.

We thought we were building an army for God’s kingdom.

We did not realize we were building a prison.

The cracks in systems like these rarely arrive through dramatic collapse. They begin as hairline fractures, almost invisible at first, widening slowly through years of lived experience.

For me, the fracture began when I started paying attention to the fruit.

If this hierarchy truly reflected God’s design for human flourishing, why did it require so much fear and institutional pressure to sustain itself? Why did it produce such chronic anxiety beneath the surface? Why did lose and pain still happen while supposedly under the protective covering?

I watched brilliant, gifted women silenced because their anatomy supposedly disqualified them from spiritual authority. Their wisdom was redirected into “acceptable” ministries while less mature men were elevated simply because they were male.

Even more disturbing, I saw how the theology of “covering” became a hiding place for abuse.

If a husband’s authority was considered absolute under God, where could a wounded wife appeal? To question authority was interpreted as rebellion. Silence became holiness. Endurance became spiritual maturity.

Over time, I entered what I can only describe as a long and painful deconstruction.

For those who have never lived through it, the word can sound intellectual or trendy. But for those who have, it feels more like dismantling a bomb while standing in the center of your own living room.

I read scripture stripped of the theological lenses I had inherited. Slowly, I began discovering a radically different vision of God and community.

I discovered that much of the early church looked nothing like our rigid hierarchies. I encountered theological traditions that rejected the eternal subordination of the Son and instead described the Trinity as coequal and coeternal, a relationship marked not by submission, but by mutual indwelling, shared glory, and divine harmony.

Perichoresis. A sacred dance rather than a chain of command.

I began to see that Jesus did not come to sanctify male dominance or establish a Christian empire through political power. He came carrying a towel and a basin. He washed feet. He inverted ladders of status and exposed the emptiness of religious control.

When you have spent years as a recognized spiritual authority, walking away from that structure is not merely theological.

It is existential.

You lose not only certainty, but identity. Relationships evaporate. Communities disappear. People you once loved begin whispering that you have fallen into deception, that you have stepped outside the covering and wandered into darkness.

But here now, at 78 years old, looking back across the landscape of my life, I can tell you with complete certainty:

There is no darkness out here. There is only the wide, clean air of freedom.

Free from the exhaustion of maintaining fragile hierarchies. Free from the arrogance that imagines the infinite mystery of God can be reduced to organizational charts and gender ladders. Free from the seduction of Christian Nationalism that trades the radical love of Christ for the cheap currency of political control.

Rose and I walk this path together now.

Our marriage is not built on chains of command, tie-breaking authority, or spiritual umbrellas. It is built on mutuality, shared laughter, deep respect, and companionship between equals.

We don’t search for authority in titles, gender roles, or institutional rank. We look instead for the quiet fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness.

And sometimes, while walking these streets and beaches of Edmonds, enjoying the beauty of the great Northwest, I think about the people still trapped inside those rigid systems.

I understand the fear that keeps them there.

But if my voice carries any prophetic weight now, let it no longer be used to enforce alignment or demand obedience.

Let it become an invitation.

To those still standing beneath those heavy spiritual umbrellas: the storm you were taught to fear is mostly an illusion. The covering was never a shield. It was a cage.

Step out into the open sky.

The air is beautiful out here.

For years I believed I was following God’s design for the family.

I did not arrive at those beliefs alone. In fact, most of the pastors and men I knew sincerely believed we were protecting families and honoring scripture. We used words like “biblical order,” “godly leadership,” and “headship.”

And I believed it completely. What I did not understand at the time was that these teachings about male headship were not just private family values inside conservative churches. They were becoming deeply connected to the political rise of the Moral Majority and the Christian Right.

The “traditional family” is one of the central battle cries of the movement.

We were told America was collapsing because men had become weak, women had become too independent, feminism was destroying the home, and secular culture was rebelling against God’s created order. Strong male leadership and female submission were presented not simply as biblical teaching but as the foundation for saving the nation itself.

The husband was the spiritual head of the home. The wife’s role was to nurture children, care for the home, and support her husband.

In the church women had limited roles. They could teach children. They could lead women’s Bible studies. They could organize meals, nursery schedules, and church events. But leadership over men was discouraged or outright forbidden.

My wife Wendy fit naturally into those expectations in the early years of our marriage.

Wendy was only sixteen years old and a sophomore in high school when we got married. She never finished school. She easily absorbed the belief that men were the leaders and women were supporters.

She often told me she did not think she was very smart.

That belief broke my heart then and breaks it even more now when I look back on it. Because it was not true at all, but the church culture reinforced her beliefs.

Wendy loved children. She became an incredible mother. After our first son was born in a hospital, she hated the experience. She wanted something different. So when our next children came along, she chose home births.

Our next four children were born at home with the help of a volunteer midwife and me awkwardly trying to help however I could.

She became fascinated by childbirth, women’s care, and midwifery. When she learned that Washington State was beginning to license trained midwives for home delivery care, something awakened in her that I had never fully seen before.

One day she announced she was going back to school.

At that point we had already been married sixteen years. Wendy was thirty-two years old.

First she studied for and passed her high school equivalency test. I still remember how proud she was when she received that diploma. And honestly, I was proud too. I loved watching her confidence grow.

But I had no idea where this was heading.

Then one day Wendy sat me down and calmly explained her plan.

She was going to college. She was going to get her nursing degree.

After that she would spend another year in midwifery training, become licensed, and eventually start her own practice.

Then she explained the part that truly shook me.

She would be gone much of the time for school and training. I would need to help take care of the children. I would need to cook meals, clean the house, and become a far more active parent at home.

And then she said something that stunned me even more.

If I did not support her, she was still going to do it anyway.

This collided head-on with everything I had been taught about male authority and headship. In my world, husbands led and wives followed. Major family decisions were supposed to flow through the man. Submission was considered a Christian virtue for women.

Yet sitting across from me was not rebellion.

It was a woman finally discovering gifts, intelligence, courage, and calling that had been buried underneath years of limitation.

And honestly, I was terrified, and I was thrilled.

Part of me felt threatened. Part of me feared losing control. Part of me worried what pastors and church people would think. What kind of pastor lets his wife become the career leader while he stays home with children?

But another part of me could see something undeniable.

Wendy was coming alive.

And somewhere deep inside me I knew I could either cling to control or embrace the person I loved.

So we made a radical decision “together”.

I resigned from the church I had started twelve years earlier.

We moved to Seattle so Wendy could attend school.

I became a house painter to support the family. I also became what people jokingly called a “house husband.” I cleaned bathrooms, made meals, did laundry, packed lunches, cared for children, and learned how exhausting and invisible domestic labor can be.

Honestly, there were moments I felt embarrassed. Some of my old beliefs still clung tightly to me. I had spent years preaching male leadership while now I was vacuuming floors and making dinner while my wife studied medicine and women’s health.

For the first time I began seeing how much of our theology about women had been shaped not by scripture but by patriarchy, control, and fear. Entire systems had been built around protecting male authority while limiting women’s freedom, leadership, and full humanity.

And the truth became impossible for me to ignore.

Wendy was thriving, she had finally been able to become fully herself.

The more I watched her grow, the more I began questioning the entire world we had once lived in.

I saw how conservative Christianity treated women’s submission as essential to social order itself. The “traditional family” became central not only to church teaching but to conservative politics. Men were supposed to lead. Women were supposed to support. Gender roles were treated almost as sacred.

I realized this was deeply connected to the rise of Christian nationalism itself.

Christian nationalism depends heavily on hierarchy and control. Strong male leaders. Obedient wives. Clearly defined authority structures. The idealized vision of America being “restored” almost always includes pushing women backward into traditional roles.

We are watching that intensify right now. Women are encouraged to leave their careers and return home. Reproductive freedom is restricted. Female leadership is attacked. DEI programs are dismantled in ways that disproportionately push women out of leadership spaces, higher education, and even military service.

Some voices openly argue women should not even vote independently from their husbands.

What is presented as “biblical values” is often simply male dominance wrapped in religious language.

Call it what it is!

Misogyny.
Patriarchy.
Hegemonic masculinity.

Back then I would have rejected those terms immediately because I believed I loved women and valued families.

But systems can still be oppressive even when the people inside them are sincere.

That realization was painful for me because it forced me to confront how much of my own identity had been built around power, gender expectations, and fear of change.

Ironically, leaving that world did not destroy my faith.

It deepened it.

Because the Jesus I kept encountering in the Gospels consistently elevated women in ways shocking for his own culture. He spoke with women publicly. He trusted them. He welcomed them as disciples. Women were the first witnesses of resurrection while male disciples hid in fear.

Jesus never seemed threatened by strong women.

Religious systems often are.

Looking back now, I realize my journey out of Christian nationalism began when Wendy said “I can’t live like this any more”.

It began in my own home.

It began by watching my wife reclaim her voice, calling, and dignity after years of believing she was somehow less capable because she was a woman. Wendy began her practice. She delivered over 1000 babies. She was an inspiration to other women. Wendy lost her battle with cancer at only 45 years old. Way too young.

My life was changed through her courage to say no more to the patriarchy we had been confined to. I will always be thankful for her leadership in my life.

For decades I would never have called myself a Christian nationalist. If someone had used that term around me in the 1970s or 1980s, I probably would have rejected it immediately. I loved Jesus. I loved scripture. I wanted people to know God. I believed I was serving the Kingdom of God, not some political ideology.

But looking back now I can see clearly that I was deeply shaped by what today we call Christian nationalism long before the phrase became common.

It did not arrive in my life carrying a flag or wearing a red hat. It came wrapped in prayer meetings, revival preaching, patriotic songs, altar calls, and sincere fear for the future of America.

As a young pastor I was taught by leaders and mentors I respected that the United States had been founded as a Christian nation. That idea was presented to us not as political opinion but as unquestionable historical truth. America had a divine destiny. God had raised up this nation for a special purpose. Our laws, schools, morality, entertainment, and government were supposed to reflect biblical values as we understood them.

And we believed we were watching all of that collapse.

The late 1960s and 1970s were turbulent years. I had already lived through violence, addiction, rebellion, and the cultural upheaval of my generation. By the time I became a pastor, America felt unstable and in moral decline . The sexual revolution, the anti-war protests, changing family structures, rising secularism, the removal of prayer from schools, all of it was described to us as evidence that America was turning away from God.

Fear became a powerful motivator.

Christianity itself was under attack. We were warned that atheism and secular humanism were taking over the nation. It was described as spiritual warfare for the survival of America itself. The message was clear: if Christians did not rise up politically, the nation would be lost.

For us, Roe v. Wade became the defining moral issue of our generation. I still remember the intensity with which it was preached. We believed abortion was not simply political disagreement but mass murder. We heard over and over that the blood of aborted babies was on America’s hands and that the judgment of God would fall upon the nation unless this evil was stopped.

I believed it with all my heart.

That issue pulled many pastors like me directly into partisan politics. The Moral Majority and other emerging evangelical political movements gave us a framework that connected our faith to the Republican Party. Ronald Reagan became more than a political candidate. He symbolized a return to morality, patriotism, strength, and “Christian values.”

I became a strong supporter of Reagan. Most of my pastor friends did too. For decades afterward I voted Republican almost automatically because I believed one party was defending Christianity while the other threatened it.

At the time, it did not feel political. It was spiritual. A war between God and Satan!

Looking back now, I understand something that I could not see then: once fear becomes baptized with religion, it becomes incredibly powerful. When people are convinced they are defending God, almost any political alliance can begin to feel justified.

We really did care about morality. We really did care about families and children and faith. We sincerely feared America was collapsing.

But sincerity does not guarantee the truth.

Over time I slowly began noticing something unsettling. The Jesus I read about in the Gospels did not fit easily inside the political movement I had joined. Jesus spoke constantly about caring for the poor, welcoming the stranger, loving enemies, rejecting power, and refusing domination. Yet increasingly our movement seemed centered on controlling culture, winning elections, defeating opponents, and reclaiming national power.

Somehow the cross and the flag had become intertwined.

I began to notice how often patriotism was confused with discipleship. In some churches the American flag stood almost as prominently as the cross. Worship services around national holidays felt more like political rallies than gatherings centered on Christ.

And fear remained at the center.

Fear of liberals.
Fear of atheists.
Fear of immigrants.
Fear of communism.
Fear of losing “our country.”
Fear that Christians were becoming persecuted whenever cultural influence began slipping away.

What I did not understand then was how deeply fear had shaped us emotionally and spiritually. Fear narrows compassion. It simplifies complex issues into good people and evil people. Through a paradigm of “spiritual Warfare”It convinces you that protecting power is the same thing as protecting the truth.

The more I saw the damage this alliance between Christianity and political power was creating the more I had to question all that I had been taught so many years ago.

Young people began leaving churches in large numbers because Christianity increasingly became partisan rather than Christlike. Many people no longer saw the church as a place of grace or humility but as a political voting bloc hungry for control. The Gospel was entangled with nationalism.

Today, when I hear political leaders and religious leaders declaring that America must “return to being a Christian nation,” I hear echoes from decades ago. The language is familiar because many of us were recruited into this same movement in the 1970s.

Only now it has intensified.

The language has become more apocalyptic. The anger is deeper. The fear is greater. Political opponents are not merely wrong but evil. Compromise is betrayal. Democracy itself is treated as secondary to “saving the nation.”

And yet I understand why many Christians are drawn into it because I was once drawn into it myself.

It did not begin with hatred. It began with fear, nostalgia, and the sincere desire to preserve something we loved.

Many Christians still do not recognize the movement because they associate Christian nationalism only with extremists. But often it enters quietly through assumptions we absorbed for years: that America has a special covenant with God, that Christianity should dominate public life, that political victories are signs of spiritual success, or that the church’s mission is connected to saving America.

I am writing as someone who participated in it, preached parts of it, voted consistently because of it, and sincerely believed I was helping save the nation.

But somewhere along the journey I began realizing something that now feels painfully obvious.

Jesus never commanded us to save America.

He called us to love our neighbors, care for the vulnerable, welcome the stranger, pursue justice, walk humbly, and embody another kind of kingdom entirely.

Nations rise and fall throughout history. Political parties come and go. Empires always believe they are chosen by God. But the church loses its soul whenever it confuses political power with the way of Christ.

I no longer believe the survival of Christianity depends on controlling the government. In fact, history suggests the opposite. The church is often at its worst when it seeks domination and at its best when it lives with humility, courage, compassion, and prophetic truth.

I understand now that my deepest mistake was not caring about morality or wanting good for my country. It was believing that the Kingdom of God could be advanced through political power and national identity.

That confusion shaped much of my generation.

And I believe we are living with the consequences today.

I started high school in North Portland when I was 13 years old. It was the early 1960s, and my school was mostly Black students. Portland was changing, and so was America. The civil rights movement was surging across the country, and racial tension and anger seemed to seep into everything. Even as a young teenager, I could feel the pressure in the air.

I was scared most of the time, though I would never have admitted it.

Fear turned into anger pretty quickly. Anger turned into violence. And violence became survival.

I started drinking alcohol. At first it was just partying and trying to fit in, but it quickly became part of my identity. Drinking gave me confidence I didn’t naturally have. It made me feel bigger than I felt inside. Stronger. Less afraid.

But alcohol costs money. So I started stealing to get it.

At first, it was small robberies. Then stealing drugs. Then, breaking into houses. Before long, my life revolved around chasing the next high, the next thrill, the next way to escape myself.

Then came LSD and marijuana.

The 60s were chaos and freedom all mixed together. Civil rights protests. Anti-war demonstrations. Rage against authority. Distrust of government. Young people were trying to reinvent the world. I got swept right into it.

In 1967, I headed to San Francisco for the Summer of Love. Like thousands of other young people, I thought maybe we were discovering a new kind of freedom. Haight-Ashbury was full of music, drugs, spirituality, rebellion, and hope. For a moment, it felt like we were all part of something historic.

But underneath all the freedom and psychedelics and idealism, I was still the same insecure kid trying to numb the emptiness inside myself.

I came home in August. In September of 1967, our first son was born. Suddenly, I was a husband and father while still full of insecurity, not knowing who I was.

I was dealing marijuana and LSD to make money and to be important in our hippy community. I knew how to hustle. I knew how to survive. I knew how to perform with confidence. But inside, I was still hollow.

Then, in 1969, everything changed.

The Jesus People movement exploded across America. Long-haired hippies were getting saved. Street kids were carrying Bibles. Young people who had tried drugs, eastern religion, politics, and rebellion were suddenly talking about Jesus.

And I became one of them.

I “got saved.”

That phrase meant everything to us back then. My life changed dramatically. I stopped using drugs. I stopped dealing. I became consumed with Christianity. Before long, I was traveling around churches and crusade meetings giving my testimony. People loved hearing the story. Former drug dealer gets saved. Radical conversion. Young preacher with passion.

And, I loved the approval.

I thought I loved Jesus. And I did love Jesus. But I also loved the attention, the affirmation, the sense of purpose, the applause after telling my story. I loved feeling important. Nobody around me asked what was happening inside me. Nobody asked what drove me. Nobody asked why I always needed to be “all in” at everything I touched.

I was useful. Useful people in church systems often don’t get examined very deeply.

I went to Bible college. Then, in 1974, I started my first church as pastor. I was young, passionate, intense, driven, and successful by church standards. Over the years, I became known as a preacher, church planter, leader, and eventually a prophet in charismatic circles. I traveled. I preached conferences. I ministered in churches. People sought me out.

From the outside, it looked like confidence. Inside, there was still insecurity. I just kept changing costumes. First, I was the biggest drunk. The most violent. Then the addict. Then the dealer. Then the radical Christian. Then the pastor. Then the prophet.

But underneath every identity was the same needy little boy desperate for approval.

No amount of success could fill the hole inside me. Not ministry success. Not recognition. Not spiritual experiences. Not being needed. Not preaching to crowds. Not hearing people say I was gifted. Nothing could touch the deep insecurity that had been driving me most of my life. And eventually the entire system collapsed.

In 1986, I hit burnout hard. Emotional exhaustion. Addiction resurfaced. My life began falling apart. I almost lost my wife. I almost lost my children. I nearly destroyed everything I cared about. That was the moment that finally led me to therapy.

Honestly, therapy probably saved my life.

Because it finally made me honest. For the first time in my life, someone helped me look beneath the performance, the ministry, the charisma, the drive, and the constant need to achieve. And there I found him. The hurting little boy inside me. The insecure child who spent most of his life trying to prove he mattered. The kid who thought being bold would cover fear.

The man who thought being successful would finally make him feel worthy. The preacher who thought helping others would heal himself. I spent decades trying to fill internal emptiness with external success.

That realization changed everything.

One of my deepest disappointments with the church world, especially the evangelical and charismatic world I came from, is how little attention was given to emotional health and self-awareness. They cared about gifting. They cared about results. They cared about crowds.

But very few people asked deeper questions about the condition of the soul.

No leader in my life asked: What pain is driving this person? What insecurity is hiding underneath the gifting? What wounds remain unhealed? What happens when applause disappears?

Churches often use people whose dysfunction produces drive. Until the dysfunction finally destroys them. Then they are quietly discarded.

And we keep acting shocked every time another pastor falls apart because of addiction, secret sexual behavior, burnout, depression, or hidden double lives.

Yes, we read about the celebrity megachurch scandals. But honestly, I think the greater tragedy is unfolding quietly in thousands of smaller churches across America. Pastors and leaders are exhausted, emotionally isolated, secretly addicted, losing marriages, battling depression, and walking away because they simply cannot survive anymore.

Many of them love God sincerely. But loving God is not the same thing as being emotionally healthy. That lesson took me decades to learn.

To be fair, evangelicals today are somewhat better than they used to be. More pastors are willing to see therapists now. Spiritual direction is discussed more openly. Burnout is taken more seriously than it was in my younger years.

But we still have a very long way to go. Self-awareness matters. Emotional health matters. Physical health matters. Rest matters. Boundaries matter.

I spent much of my life trying to become somebody important because deep down, I did not believe I already had value. That is a painful sentence to write.

These days, as I approach my 78th birthday in a little over one week, I find myself far less interested in fame, influence, titles, or outward success. I care much more about honesty. About peace. About health. About being fully present with the people I love.

And strangely enough, I think that may be the closest thing to spiritual maturity I have ever found.

Rose is turning seventy on October 16th ! And we have a party to go to!

Seventy years of life, of raising children, of loving her family and friends , of building something that lasts. So months ago, we decided: we’re going back to Rome. To Italy, the place of her ancestry. We are also thrilled that some family and friends are planning to join us there to celebrate with us.

We’ve been there three times before. We’ve stood in the shadow of the Colosseum, wandered the narrow cobblestone streets, visited the Vatican museum sat in small restaurants where the pasta arrives prepared to perfection. We’ve lingered in a piazza enjoying a good wine, watching the swirl of humanity, locals, and tourists all drawn to something ancient and sacred.

And this time, we’re going for just ten days. Not rushed. Not trying to “see everything.” We’ve seen most of the sights before. This trip is just to be there. To celebrate ROSE. To remember our 30 years together !

We bought the airline tickets. We plan on taking a food tour, because if you’re going to celebrate, you might as well do it with good wine and unforgettable food.

And then the world shifted.

War headlines. Rising tensions. Words like “Iran,” “War “ “oil disruption,” “airspace closures.” The kind of news that can try and rob you of the joys of celebrating life.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect us.

It’s a strange thing. You can be sitting in your living room in Edmonds Wa., planning a fantastic trip when you are suddenly asking questions you never expected:

Is this wise?
Are we safe?
Should we still go?

There’s an anxiety in planning something joyful while the world feels crazy.

Part of me wants to brush it off. After all, you only live once.

Our flight path from Seattle to Rome goes north, over Canada then the Atlantic, far from the Middle East. The disruptions making headlines don’t directly touch our route. The ticket we bought is the ticket we keep, no sudden spikes. We hope the fuel shortages don’t disrupt our plans.

Even the risk of cancellation seems low. These long-haul international flights are priority routes. If anything gets trimmed, it’s the smaller, less critical flights.

In other words, everything points to this: we’re probably just fine.

And yet…

Peace of mind doesn’t always come from facts alone.

Because this isn’t just about logistics. It’s about something deeper, the way uncertainty unsettles us.

Fear doesn’t usually shout. It whispers.

It says things like:

“What if something goes wrong?”
“What if this isn’t the right time?”
“What if you should just stay home?”

And you know fear can be persuasive.

It dresses itself up as wisdom. As caution. As responsibility.

Now don’t misunderstand me, there is a kind of fear that protects us. Wisdom matters. We check our travel insurance. We monitor our flight. We stay informed.

But there’s another kind of fear that slowly shrinks our world.

It keeps us from going, from celebrating, from stepping into joy because the future feels uncertain.

And here’s the truth I’m wrestling with:

If we wait for the world to feel completely safe, we may never go anywhere again.

This trip isn’t just a vacation.

It’s a marker.

It says: Life is still to be lived.

It says: Seventy years matters.

It says: We are not done yet.

When I think about Rome, I don’t just think about history, I think about continuity. Empires rose and fell. Wars came and went. And still, people gathered. Ate meals. Fell in love. Laughed.

The Colosseum has seen more upheaval than any of us can imagine. And yet it still stands.

There’s something grounding about that.

It reminds me that the instability we feel is not new. Humanity has always lived with uncertainty. The difference is, today we carry it in our pockets, refreshed every few minutes on a glowing screen, constant information filled with fear and anxiety.

I’ve been thinking about this in a broader way, not just about Rome.

How often do we quietly pull back from life because of uncertainty?

We delay the trip.
We postpone the gathering.
We put off the thing that matters.

Sometimes that’s wise.

But sometimes… it’s loss disguised as prudence.

I’ve spent years walking with people through all kinds of seasons. And I can tell you this: when people look back on their lives, they rarely regret the risks they took.

They regret the moments they let slip away.

The visit they didn’t make.
The words they didn’t say.
The celebration they postponed until it never happened.

So here’s where Rose and I have landed. No pun intended.

We’re not ignoring reality. We’re paying attention.

We’ll review our travel insurance, not because we’re afraid, but because we want to be wise. We’ll keep an eye on flight updates. We’ll expect that maybe taxis cost a bit more, or that dinner prices inch up slightly.

That’s part of living in a connected, complicated world.

But we’re also choosing something else.

We’re choosing to go.

Not recklessly. Not blindly. But intentionally.

We’re choosing to celebrate her life and our 30 years together not someday, but now.

As I’ve been thinking about this trip, I’ve realized it’s not just our story.

Maybe you’re not planning a trip to Rome. Maybe your “Rome” looks different.

It might be a conversation you’ve been putting off.
A relationship that needs attention.
A dream that feels a little too risky right now.
A gathering you’re hesitant to host.

Or even something as simple as allowing yourself joy in a world that often feels heavy.

The question underneath all of it is the same:

Will we let fear define our lives?

Or will we, with wisdom and courage, keep stepping forward?

I don’t have all the answers.

But I’m learning this:

Life has always been uncertain.

The illusion of control is just that, an illusion.

And yet, in the middle of it all, we are still invited to live. To love. To celebrate.

To book that trip.

To gather around the table.

To mark a milestone.

Come October Rose and I will be sitting at a table somewhere near the Trevi Fountain. Talking about how we have been there 3 times before. How each time we threw coins into the fountain hoping we could return again, but believing it would never happen. But here we are in our special place once again.

We’ll raise a glass and toast to another wonderful adventure.

We’ll remember the years behind us. We’ll give thanks for the life we’ve been given. And we’ll step, once again, into the mystery of what’s ahead.

Not because everything feels safe.

But because it doesn’t.

And we’re going anyway.

If you’re standing at a crossroads I’d encourage you:

Be wise. Pay attention. Prepare well.

But don’t let fear quietly steal the life that’s still yours to live.

Because the world has always been uncertain.

And the invitation has always been the same:

Go. Live. Celebrate!

When Donald Trump won a second term, Rose and I didn’t just feel disappointed; we felt deep grief.

We felt grief for our country and for what was about to take place. And as his administration began, our sadness was justified. Cabinet appointments that were less about competence and more about loyalty. A kind of devotion that was cult-like. Not leadership built on wisdom or experience, but loyalty to Trump.

And then, the fears we had became real. Rising costs. Economic instability. Political division deepens into something frightening. Immigration crackdowns that are not policy but intimidation and terror tactics.

So we did what a growing number of Americans are quietly doing: we began to ask a question that once felt unthinkable:

Should we leave?

At first, it felt almost adventurous. Romantic, even.

We made a list.

Italy.
Rose has Italian heritage, and we’ve been there several times. There’s something about Italy that slows your soul down. The food, the rhythm of life, the deep sense of history, it draws you in.

Thailand.
We’ve visited five times now. It’s stunningly beautiful, remarkably affordable, and the people are gracious. The idea of living on an island with warm breezes and beautiful ocean waters has appeal.

Portugal.
A favorite among expats. Welcoming, affordable, and stable. We read article after article about Americans finding a new life there.

Mexico.
Close enough to come home. Familiar in many ways. A practical option to keep family ties strong.

We researched visas, healthcare systems, and cost-of-living comparisons. We watched videos of cheerful couples telling us how they cut their expenses in half and found a better life.

For a while, it felt like a real possibility.

But somewhere along the way, reality started to interrupt the dream.

I’m 77. By the time we would realistically make a move, I’d be pushing 80. I have some health concerns. Rose, nine years younger, has her own, particularly a heart condition.

And then came the question neither of us wanted to say out loud:

What happens if one of us dies there?

It’s not a dramatic question. At our age, it’s a practical one.

Would the other be left navigating grief in a foreign country? Different language, different systems, far from family?

That question alone began to shift things.

But it wasn’t the only one.

We just returned from two weeks on one of our favorite islands in Thailand. It was, as always, beautiful.

The water was perfect.
The food was incredible.
The lifestyle did not disappoint.

But something else happened this time.

We started noticing things we hadn’t really paid attention to before.

Because this time, we weren’t just visitors.

We were quietly asking, Could we live here?

And that question changes everything.

On vacation, 87 degrees every day sounds like paradise.

Living in it? That’s a different story.

At night, it drops to a refreshing… 81 degrees.

Which is lovely, if you’re in air conditioning. Or a pool. Or holding a cold drink and not trying to sleep.

Then there’s transportation.

Let’s just say… “Rules of the road” is more of a suggestion. Organized chaos might be the best description. If you value predictability in traffic, you may want to reconsider.

And communication?

Even after multiple visits, we still found ourselves confused at times. Language barriers. Cultural nuances. Moments where you realize you don’t fully understand what’s happening, and probably won’t.

Then there was the food.

Now, I love Thai food. I really do.

But somewhere around day 10, Rose looked at me and said, “I would give anything for a hamburger.”

And I knew exactly what she meant.

Here’s what we came to understand more clearly than ever:

When you move to another country, you don’t bring your world with you.

You step into a new reality.

You don’t change the culture.
The culture changes you.

And that’s not a small thing.

Language. Currency. Healthcare systems. Social norms. Everyday interactions. Even simple things, like going to the store or making a phone call, require more effort.

It’s not impossible. Many people do it successfully.

But it’s not easy. And it’s not the same as visiting.

Then there’s the biggest factor of all:

Family.

Between us, we have eight adult children and twenty-eight grandchildren.

Twenty-eight.

That’s not a detail, it’s a gravitational force.

The idea of living halfway around the world and missing birthdays, holidays, spontaneous visits… it began to feel less like an adventure and more like a loss.

Could we fly back? Sure. From our place to the Island we love, we take three flights, a fast boat to the Island, and some taxi rides. 28 hours of travel!

But it wouldn’t be the same.

There’s something sacred about proximity. About being able to simply show up.

When we returned home to Edmonds, Washington, something happened.

We saw it differently.

The trees.
The water.
The familiar streets.
The rhythm of our own community.

It felt beautiful.

Not perfect. But deeply, meaningfully ours.

We were reminded that place is more than scenery. It’s relationships. It’s history. It’s belonging.

So after all the research, all the dreaming, all the “what ifs,” we came to a conclusion:

Moving is not for us.

Not because other countries aren’t wonderful. They are.

Not because people shouldn’t go. Some should.

But for us, at this stage of life, the cost would be too high.

And more importantly, we realized something else.

Leaving isn’t the only response to a troubled time.

There’s another option.

You stay.

You plant your feet more firmly, not less.

You engage. You speak. You resist what needs resisting. You support what needs building.

You become, in your own way, part of the countercurrent.

For us, that means standing against what we see as the dangers of Christian nationalism. It means advocating for justice, for compassion, for truth.

It means not surrendering our place in this country, even when it’s hard.

Especially when it’s hard.

Now, don’t misunderstand, we’re not done traveling.

This October, we’re heading back to Italy to celebrate Rose’s 70th birthday.

And we’ll enjoy every moment of it.

The food. The wine. The long, slow dinners.

(And yes, probably a hamburger at the airport on the way home.)

But we’ll return.

Because we know where we belong.

If you’re considering leaving the United States right now, whether because of politics, cost of living, or both, you’re not alone.

It’s a real conversation.

But I would offer this:

Make sure you’re not confusing escape with solution.

Ask the deeper questions. Not just “Where could we go?” but “What would we lose?”

Because sometimes, the place you’re tempted to leave…
is the very place you’re called to stay and help redeem.

As for us?

We’re home.

And strangely enough, after all that searching, that feels like the best decision we could make.

I live in a small city just north of Seattle. Edmonds is about ten miles from the center of Seattle. It’s one of those places that still feels like a well-kept secret. We have a beautiful beach stretching along the waterfront, with sweeping views of the Olympic Mountains. On clear days, the views are stunning!

A ferry makes its steady run from here to Kingston, crossing the Puget Sound like clockwork. Back and forth. Faithful. Predictable. A rhythm of ordinary life.

Our town is a mix of older retired folks and young families. From our condo, there are over fifty restaurants and coffee shops within just a few blocks. I’m not exaggerating. If you can’t find something to eat, that’s not a city problem, that’s a you problem.

Most days, I try to walk about three miles for exercise. I say “try,” because some days the coffee shops seem to have a pull of their own. But when I do get out, I love it. I say! hello to neighbors, to strangers, to dogs who are far more interested in me than their owners are. There’s something quietly sacred about these small moments. A smile. A nod. A “good morning.” In a divided world, even that feels like resistance.

Last Saturday, that quiet resistance became something much larger.

It was our fourth “No Kings” protest against the policies of Donald Trump and his administration. The first gathering drew about 500 people. It felt big then. Neighbors showing up, creative signs, a shared sense that maybe we weren’t alone.

But this last Saturday? More than 8,000 people.

Eight thousand, in our little city.

And across the country, millions more. Some estimates say over 8 million people gathering peacefully in towns and cities all over America. No violence. No chaos. Just ordinary people standing together and saying: We don’t do kings here.

And here is where the contrast began to press in on me.

Because while millions of Americans were gathering peacefully in the streets, our nation was also projecting power in a very different way, through military force, through bombing campaigns, through the ongoing effort to extend and secure influence around the world.

Two realities.

Happening at the same time.

The very next day was Palm Sunday.

We gathered with our house church, reflecting on the story of Jesus entering Jerusalem. And as we talked, the parallel became impossible for me to ignore.

On that first Palm Sunday, there weren’t just one, but two processions into Jerusalem.

From one side came Jesus, riding on a donkey. No armor. No weapons. Surrounded by ordinary people waving palm branches, crying out “Hosanna.” It was a demonstration of humility, of peace, of a very different kind of kingdom.

At the same time, from the other side of the city, came Pontius Pilate.

He came with soldiers. With horses. With banners. With the full weight of the Roman imperial rule behind him. It was a calculated display of power meant to send a clear message: Rome is in control. Do not resist.

Two parades.

Two demonstrations.

Happening at the same time.

One rooted in peace. The other in domination.

And on Palm Sunday, I realized, we are living in a moment that mirrors that same tension.

On one hand, millions of people, 8 million by some counts, gather peacefully, lifting their voices, calling for justice, for accountability, for a different kind of future. Not perfect people. Not a perfect movement. But unmistakably nonviolent.

On the other hand, at that very same time, our nation was demonstrating power in the most traditional way empires know how, through military force, through bombing, through the projection of strength designed to secure even more power.

Two demonstrations.

Happening at the same time.

What kind of power do we believe in?

The power that says, “Submit or else,” or the power that says, “Blessed are the peacemakers”?

Rome believed its power was eternal.

It wasn’t.

Jesus, riding on that donkey, looked weak by comparison. No army. No political office. No leverage.

And yet here we are, over 2,000 years later, still telling His story.

And Rome? It’s a chapter in a history book.

As I walked three miles the morning after Palm Sunday, I kept turning this over in my mind. I passed my usual coffee spots, tempted, as always. I greeted neighbors. Life going on in its ordinary rhythm.

But underneath it, this deeper question lingered:

Can peaceful people actually stand against the machinery of power and bring real change?

It’s the question those first followers of Jesus had to wrestle with. It’s the question every movement for justice has faced, from civil rights to anti-war protests to where we stand today.

And I believe the answer is yes, but not easily, and not without cost.

Because the power we have in this country is real, but it’s also fragile.

It’s found, in part, in our vote.

And there are those who understand just how powerful that is, and will do everything they can to suppress it, to limit it, to control who gets to participate.

The midterm elections ahead may very well determine the direction of our democracy.

That’s not an overstatement.

It’s a moment of decision.

Not just politically, but morally, spiritually.

Which procession are we aligning ourselves with?

The one that relies on domination, fear, and control?

Or the one that moves slowly, humbly, peacefully, yet carries within it the power to transform the world?

I don’t pretend that casting a vote is the same thing as waving a palm branch.

But I do believe both are acts of witness.

Ways of saying: This is the kind of kingdom I believe in.

So I’ll keep walking my three miles.

I’ll keep saying hello to my neighbors.

I’ll keep showing up, both in the streets and at the ballot box.

Because, the choice is still in front of us.

Two parades.

Two demonstrations.

Happening at the same time.

And every one of us has to decide which one we’re going to join.

About twenty-five years ago, Rose and I found ourselves quietly, but unmistakably, in a crisis of calling.

We were co-pastors of a church in Shoreline, Washington. By most measures, things were going well. We had just moved into a building of our own. The services were strong. The worship was meaningful. The preaching was thoughtful. We had good people and a healthy congregation.

But something was still missing.

We had learned how to “do church” the way it is often done in America, create a compelling Sunday experience, build quality programs, and hope people show up. If you did it well enough, people would come. If they came, maybe they would stay. If they stayed, maybe they would grow.

But deep down, we knew we were missing something essential.

It began as a quiet discomfort, then grew into dissatisfaction. We started asking questions that disrupted everything we thought we knew.

What if church was never meant to be a performance?
What if success wasn’t measured by attendance, but by presence?
What if we weren’t called to build a crowd, but to love a community?

Questions like these began to unravel much of what we had known before.

Maybe it was an awakening.

Instead of asking, “How do we get people to come to us?” we began asking, “Who are the people around us, and what do they need?”

So we started paying attention to our neighborhood.

Really paying attention.

We saw immigrant families trying to find their footing in a new country. We saw working-class households stretched thin. We saw people carrying burdens that would never show up on a Sunday morning, and who would likely never walk through our church doors, no matter how good the service was.

And something shifted in us.

We realized that if we were going to be faithful to Jesus, we could not remain at a distance.

We had to become present.

We began to use language that reshaped our identity. We wanted to become a missional community, not a church waiting to be attended, but a people sent. And even more than that, we wanted to become incarnational.

That word changed everything.

Our anchor became the paraphrase of John 1:14: “The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood.”

That is what Jesus did.

He didn’t build a platform and invite people to come listen. He didn’t stay at a safe distance. He entered into the lives of real people, with real struggles, real pain, real stories.

He moved into the neighborhood.

And then Hebrews 4 came alive to us in a new way, that Jesus is a high priest who can feel our weaknesses. He understands. He has lived it. He is not detached from human experience, He is deeply connected to it.

That is empathy.

Not sentimentality. Not weakness.

But the willingness to enter into another person’s world.

And we began to realize something we had never fully understood before:

You cannot be incarnational without being empathetic.

So we made a decision that changed the trajectory of our lives.

We would not build church around attracting people.
We would not manipulate people into faith.
We would not treat people as projects.

We would love them.

We would listen.

We would serve.

We would become a community that accepted people where they were, without hidden agendas. Especially those on the margins. Especially immigrants, the poor, the overlooked.

We didn’t fully know where that would lead.

In fact, we had no idea.

But we took the next step.

And then another.

And then another.

About twenty years ago, that journey gave birth to something we never could have planned. Rose, myself with a team of committed people we started a nonprofit called Canopy Scholars. What began as a simple expression of presence and care has grown into a vibrant community serving immigrant families, primarily from Africa.

Today, Canopy Scholars provides after-school tutoring and community support for around 150 students.

But it is more than tutoring.

It is relationship.
It is belonging.
It is dignity.
It is love in action.

We have watched children grow, families flourish, and a community take root that reflects the heart of Jesus in ways far deeper than anything we could have created on a Sunday morning stage.

And I can say this honestly:

We had no idea, twenty-five years ago, where our desire to serve the community would take us.

It has been amazing.

And it has been wonderful.

All of it flowed from a simple, radical shift:

We chose presence over performance.
We chose incarnation over attraction.
We chose empathy.

Which is why the moment we are living in now feels so deeply troubling.

Because empathy itself is under attack.

Voices with significant influence are beginning to frame empathy not as a virtue, but as a liability.

J.D. Vance has suggested that compassion must be limited, arguing for a kind of “ordered love” where our concern should prioritize those closest to us, implying that extending empathy too broadly can actually be harmful.

Even more starkly, Elon Musk has warned that “the fundamental weakness of Western civilization is empathy,” suggesting that compassion itself can undermine society.

And these ideas are not staying in political or cultural spaces.

They are finding their way into the church.

Books like Toxic Empathy and The Sin of Empathy argue that empathy can lead people away from truth, that it is something to be guarded against, even resisted.

When I look at Jesus, I do not see a lack of empathy.

I see the fullness of it.

I see a Savior who was moved with compassion.
Who wept.
Who touched the untouchable.
Who saw individuals, not categories.
Who entered into pain instead of avoiding it.

The incarnation itself is the ultimate act of empathy.

God did not remain distant.

God came near.

God entered our story, not to control it from afar, but to redeem it from within.

If we limit empathy within the Christian life, we do not make the gospel stronger.

We make it unrecognizable.

Because without empathy, there is no incarnation.
Without incarnation, there is no cross.
And without the cross, there is no gospel.

What we discovered in Shoreline years ago is even more urgent now.

The church does not need to become more impressive.

It needs to become more present.

It does not need better performances.

It needs deeper compassion.

It does not need louder better arguments shouted from a distance.

It needs people willing to move into the neighborhood.

To listen.

To love.

To stay.

Because in the end, the question is not whether empathy can be misused.

The question is this:

What kind of Savior do we follow?

One who stands at a distance?

Or one who draws near?

Jesus did not love us in theory.

He loved us in proximity.

He moved into the neighborhood.

And if we are going to follow Him, truly follow Him, we will have to do the same.

Not with better strategies.

Not with more polished services.

But with lives marked by presence, compassion, and courage.

In a world that is increasingly suspicious of empathy,

the church must become its boldest expression.

I hadn’t grown up in church. I didn’t know the difference between Baptists, Lutherans, Pentecostals, or whatever other tribes Christians had invented for themselves. As far as I know, “denomination” was how you counted your money.

So when I became a Christian, I assumed a very simple thing: whatever Christians around me believed must be what all Christians everywhere had always believed.

This assumption, I later discovered, was spectacularly wrong. But it took me some time to figure that out.

In 1970 a book appeared that seemed to explain everything about the coming end of the world.

It was called The Late Great Planet Earth, written by Hal Lindsey.

Through the 1970s it became a publishing phenomenon. It was the best-selling nonfiction book in America, outselling everything except the Bible.

People were desperate to understand what was happening in the world.

The Cold War loomed over everything. Nuclear war seemed inevitable. Vietnam was raging. Assassinations had shaken the country. Society felt unstable and frightening.

Lindsey’s book offered an explanation and a timeline.

According to the book, we were living in the last generation before the end of the world.

I read it, and everyone I knew did as well. like it had just arrived from heaven by express mail.

Lindsey explained that before things got really bad, something called the Rapture would occur. One moment Christians would be standing around minding their own business, and the next moment, poof!, they would vanish into heaven.

Cars would crash because Christian drivers suddenly disappeared.

Airplanes would lose pilots mid-flight.

Barber chairs would spin around empty with half-finished haircuts.

It sounded terrifying, but also strangely reassuring.

Because if you were a Christian, you wouldn’t be around for the really bad part.

After the Rapture the earth would enter a seven-year Tribulation. Hell on EARTH.

During that time the Antichrist would rise to power, the devil would take control of world systems, and humanity would suffer catastrophic disasters described in the book of Revelation.

Eventually, Israel would recognize Jesus as the Messiah in a massive national conversion.

Then Jesus would return, defeat evil, and establish a 1,000-year kingdom on earth.

As a brand-new Christian, I assumed this was simply what the Bible clearly taught.

And since I thought all Christians agreed on everything (remember, I was new), I assumed this was the universal belief of the global church.

Later I learned something shocking.

Not only did many Christians not believe this…

Most Christians throughout history had never even heard of it.

The system I had absorbed without question is called Dispensationalism.

And despite sounding ancient and biblical, it actually appeared quite late in Christian history.

It developed in the 1800s through the teachings of John Nelson Darby.

Darby created a detailed timeline dividing history into prophetic eras, or “dispensations”, and included the idea of a secret pre-tribulation rapture.

Later, these ideas spread widely through the influential Scofield Reference Bible, which printed Darby’s interpretations right alongside the biblical text.

Many readers understandably assumed Scofield’s notes were simply explanations of what the Bible had always meant.

But the early church, those Christians closest to the apostles, did not teach this system.

Church fathers like Irenaeus, Augustine of Hippo, and Justin Martyr had plenty to say about Christ’s return, but none described a secret rapture removing Christians before a tribulation.

For nearly eighteen centuries, Christianity functioned perfectly well without charts predicting when pilots would vanish from airplanes.

The excitement around Lindsey’s book centered on one key idea.

In Matthew 24 Jesus says:

“This generation will certainly not pass away until all these things have happened.”

Dispensational teachers argued that the prophetic clock began ticking when the modern nation of Israel was formed in May 1948.

A “generation,” they said, was roughly forty years.

Which means, if you were doing the math in the 1970s, that the end of the world should arrive sometime around 1988.

There was just one little problem.

It didn’t.

Undeterred, prophecy teachers simply adjusted the length of a “generation.”

Maybe it was 60 years.

Maybe 70.

Maybe 80.

Incidentally, I was born in May 1948, the very month Israel became a nation. My life is the last generation!

Which means if the “last generation” theory were true, I would apparently be the biological clock of the apocalypse.

Every birthday I’ve had since 1988 has quietly disproved someone’s prophecy chart.

One reason to reject rapture theology is that the Bible passages used to support it simply don’t say what people claim.

Take this verse:

“Then we who are alive… will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air.”
—1 Thessalonians 4:17

Dispensationalists interpret this as believers leaving earth permanently.

But in the ancient world the phrase “meet the Lord” referred to citizens going out of a city to welcome a visiting king and escort him back in.

In other words, the image is not evacuation, it’s royal welcome.

Another passage often quoted is Matthew 24:

“One will be taken and the other left.”

Popular teaching says the one “taken” is raptured.

But in the previous verses Jesus compares this to the flood of Noah, where those “taken” were swept away in judgment, while the righteous remained.

Which means if we read the text, the people you want to be in that passage are actually the ones left behind.

You might ask, “So what? People can have different views about the end times.”

True.

But this belief system now shapes real political decisions.

Within American evangelicalism, many leaders still interpret world events through dispensational prophecy.

One example is Mike Huckabee, an evangelical pastor who strongly embraces this theological framework. He is currently the American ambassador to Israel.

For many who share this view, support for the modern state of Israel is not primarily about diplomacy, peace, or human flourishing.

It’s about prophecy fulfillment.

The thinking goes like this:

Israel must exist so that the events of Revelation can unfold.

Eventually the Jewish people will experience a mass conversion to Christianity after the tribulation begins.

Therefore geopolitical support for Israel becomes part of a divine timetable.

In other words, many policymakers believe they are helping God complete the script of the end times.

This is not merely theology anymore.

It is foreign policy.

And when government decisions are influenced by a theological system that many Christians historically consider a misinterpretation of Scripture, it raises serious questions.

Over the years my understanding of Scripture has changed dramatically.

I still believe Jesus will return.

Christians throughout history have confessed that hope.

But the idea that believers are secretly evacuated while the rest of humanity is tortured into conversion simply doesn’t fit the story of the gospel.

The New Testament vision is not escape from the world.

It is the renewal of the world.

Romans 8 speaks of creation being liberated.

Revelation ends not with believers leaving earth but with the New Jerusalem coming down.

God moves toward creation, not away from it.

The ultimate hope of Christianity is not the destruction of creation.

It is restoration.

When I think about that 21-year-old convert in 1969, eagerly reading prophecy charts and wondering if the Rapture might happen before dinner, I have to smile.

I was sincere.

I was curious.

And I was wildly uninformed.

But that journey taught me something valuable.

Just because a teaching is popular, printed in best-selling books, or preached with great certainty does not mean it represents the historic faith of the church.

Sometimes it simply means we need to keep studying, keep questioning, and keep listening to the broader Christian tradition.

And occasionally it means admitting that the end of the world has been predicted so many times that the apocalypse itself might be getting embarrassed.

Personally, I’m no longer waiting for pilots to disappear mid-flight.

I’m waiting for the day when Christ renews creation, justice flows like rivers, and peace finally takes root on this troubled planet.

And thankfully, that hope doesn’t require a prophecy chart, or a countdown clock tied to my birthday.