Out of Pocket | Mark 2:20

Coachable | Mark 3:1-2

Another time Jesus went into the synagogue, and a man with a shriveled hand was there. Some of them were looking for a reason to accuse Jesus, so they watched him closely to see if he would heal him on the Sabbath. Mark 3:1–2 During family board games, one of my kids became infamous for not handling a loss well. Once, he even flipped the board, and pieces flew everywhere. When we’d correct him as a toddler, his go-to reply was, “I know!” We’d respond, gently but firmly, “No, you don’t—but we can teach you.” Then I realized that he had picked it up from someone: me. Often, when someone offered correction, I’d shut down. I wanted to be seen as competent, in control, already “good enough.” Kids have a funny way of revealing our own flaws. I’ve had to learn to coach myself to be more coachable. To ask for feedback. To stay open. To resist the urge to defend or dismiss. In Mark 3, Jesus is in the flow of his ministry—teaching, healing, transforming lives. But not everyone is happy about it. Some of the religious leaders, feeling threatened, show up at the synagogue not to learn, but to watch. To accuse. Imagine this from Jesus’ perspective. You’re making an impact, and the momentum is building, but then some “colleagues”—other teachers of the law—see you as a threat and start harassing you. One weekend, Jesus visits the synagogue and encounters a man with a hand shriveled up like a dry creek bed. The Greek word for the man’s hand suggests it was severely atrophied and paralyzed. Medical historians speculate that he may have had nerve damage, perhaps from injury or a disease like polio, or some form of amyotrophic myelopathy. Whatever the cause, the hand was useless. He couldn’t work with it, grip tools, or earn a living through manual labor. In an economy built on physical work, a withered hand meant poverty and dependence. Because of the consequences, such a condition developed social stigma, too. To others, the man’s hand was a symbol of lost vitality. It meant hardship, social exclusion, and shame. Jesus stops to connect with him. As with the tax collector, Jesus reaches out to someone society ignores. But do the Pharisees celebrate Jesus’ compassion? No. They’re not moved by his concern and compassion. They’re not curious about Jesus’ power, either. Instead, they seem to be locked into their own categories. They “watch him closely to see if he would heal on the Sabbath.” Never mind that Jesus had already explained the Sabbath to them in the previous story. They didn’t hear it. They tuned him out, like Charlie Brown’s teacher: waa wa whaaa waa. They weren’t listening to learn. They were waiting to trap. They were acting like toddlers: I know! Have you ever been in a relationship like that—where it’s not about what’s right, but who’s right? Where every conversation is a contest? That’s what pride does. It makes us unteachable. It makes us cling to petty things, just to prove a point. And sometimes, like the Pharisees, we can reduce people—and even Jesus—to single issues, missing the heart entirely. Our stubbornness is a mask for our fear. Many years later, Jesus’ brother James, writing to a group of Jesus followers, says “be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry” (James 1:19). Have you ever been in a toxic relationship defined by “winning?” Pride and stubbornness take over. People will even make decisions that counter their own best interests, just to defeat a perceived enemy. Just as the Pharisees got stuck on the word “Sabbath,” we can get stuck and reduce others—and even Jesus—to single issues, majoring in the minors and missing the bigger picture. Our stubbornness can be a sign of our ignorance. The Pharisees needed a lesson in listening. They needed to learn to be coachable. Just like me. But Jesus’ critics refused to learn. One way to work on learning to listen is by going slow. Resist the urge to escalate. Listen closely to others and to what Jesus is saying in Scripture. Pay attention to your triggers and let them be opportunities for growth. When small issues threaten to dominate, pause and ask, “What do I really want?” In this study, we’re moving slowly through Mark’s gospel—verse by verse, examining every word. I encourage you to go slow in your Bible reading. I am not a fan of a Bible-in-a-Year approaches. Why rush? God has given us a treasure trove of wisdom meant to be savored. Bible in a Year? Maybe. But how about Bible in a Decade? Maybe we should do Bible in a Lifetime. When we go slow, we begin to see how it all fits together. We begin to connect the dots—to notice patterns, promises, echoes of God’s voice from one book to another. You’ll start to ask questions like: Where have I seen this before? And what might Jesus be teaching me now? Being coachable means living with a learner’s heart, which may be one of the most important traits of a disciple. (More on this in Book 3.) Take your time. You won’t be disappointed. Because the more we let go of control and learn to listen—to God and to others—the better life gets. The controlling heart loves the hurry of a self-managed life, but Jesus invites us to release our grip and open ourselves up. Pray Lord, help me learn to listen when others offer wisdom and care. Help me listen to you, through Scripture, through silence, and through the people you’ve placed in my life. Amen. More Like Jesus by Len Wilson is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to More Like Jesus by Len Wilson at lenwilson.substack.com/subscribe [https://lenwilson.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

Vulnerable | Mark 3:1-6

Another time Jesus went into the synagogue, and a man with a shriveled hand was there. Some of them were looking for a reason to accuse Jesus, so they watched him closely to see if he would heal him on the Sabbath. Jesus said to the man with the shriveled hand, “Stand up in front of everyone.” Then Jesus asked them, “Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?” But they remained silent. He looked around at them in anger and, deeply distressed at their stubborn hearts, said to the man, “Stretch out your hand.” He stretched it out, and his hand was completely restored. Then the Pharisees went out and began to plot with the Herodians how they might kill Jesus. Mark 3:1-6 The synagogue, on another Sabbath. The room fills with the usual crowd—families, merchants, religious leaders. Everyone is settling into their places. The man with the shriveled hand enters. Eyes glance over and see him. In a town this size, everyone knows him. He’s lived with this disability his whole life. Today, Jesus is teaching. And in the corner, a group of Pharisees sits watching, again. After the previous conflicts, they’re waiting this time. They’re not here to listen and learn anymore—if they ever were—but to look for Jesus to violate one of the categories. If he does, they’ll have grounds to accuse him. Jesus is just getting started, but the naysayers are out, eager to put a stop to his work before he gets too big. Jesus knows what they’re doing. He calls the man with the shriveled hand forward. “Stand up in front of everyone.” The man stands up, vulnerable. But surprisingly, instead of talking to the man, Jesus turns directly to the watching Pharisees. “Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?” Silence. Jesus looks at them. He has broken the fourth wall of their supposed support. He’s angry and calling out the dark thoughts in their stubborn hearts, because he knows what will happen next. Then he says to the man: “Stretch out your hand.” The man pulls his hand out of his cloak. It is completely restored. Having heard his question and seen the man’s hand, the Pharisees are incensed. They walk out—and immediately begin plotting how to kill Jesus. The irony is savage. They accused Jesus of breaking Sabbath law by healing. Then they left to plot murder, on the Sabbath. How did they go from arguing about the Sabbath to plotting murder? Doesn’t that response seem extreme? I was twenty years old, working as an associate producer at KTAB, the CBS affiliate in Abilene, Texas. It was an incredible job for a college junior. I pulled raw satellite footage of the Bombing of Baghdad. I chased tornadoes. I also recorded high school basketball games, and watching the lead sportscaster come in and read copy on-air at night, I realized I had zero long-term interest in his career. I was on a quest for Existential Value. It was during this window of my college life that I had journaled the sentence inspired by Solomon’s prayer, to “use oral, written, and visual means to tell the story of Jesus Christ.” It was a simple sentence with profound implications for my life, but initially I had no idea what it meant, especially living in Abilene, Texas. I only knew I heard God calling me to work at the intersection of church and new and emerging communications technology, which meant I no longer wanted to be a news producer. In May of that year, an assistant youth director job opened up at my church—a tall steeple downtown church, the kind I’d grown up in. I applied and got it. The senior pastor said he wanted to begin meeting with me. I was thrilled. I saw it as mentorship, someone invested in my calling. We had a meeting. A Bible study and a prayer. I don’t remember the content of the study or his words. What I remember is feeling like I didn’t have sufficient words to sound impressive to him. I had grown up as a Preacher’s Kid but had no direct ministry experience of my own. At the conclusion of our meeting, we each prayed. I prayed the way I prayed with my college buddies—honest, unpolished, casual. Afterward, he said we’d schedule another time. But that time never came. Instead, a couple of days later, I was informed by my boss’ secretary that I was to be in charge of the gym schedule and the recreational ministry, which I did for a year until my new bride and I moved. It must’ve been a pretty awful prayer! The abrupt end to our supposed mentorship hurt and confused me. It seemed like a clear rejection. I’d just discovered my calling—this sense that God wanted to use my gifts to tell the story of Jesus—and the first church leader I shared it with didn’t want to meet with me again. Maybe I wasn’t spiritual enough. Maybe my prayer was too informal. Maybe I didn’t fit the image of what a youth minister was supposed to be. Was this how all church leaders acted? I’ll never know what happened. His silence became a wound that stayed with me for years. The sense that I wasn’t good enough for the church. I thought I was alone in that experience, until I started listening to other people’s stories. The observation is everywhere: Christians are judgmental, unloving, and don’t look like the Jesus they claim to follow. People share stories of pain—usually inflicted not by Jesus, but by the very people who claimed to follow him. At one time or another, have you ever wondered, how can they act like that and still call themselves Christian? Christians ruining Christianity doesn’t make Christianity untrue. It makes Christians human—desperately in need of the very grace we claim to represent. And if we’re honest, most of us have played a part in someone else’s negative perception of Christianity, whether we meant to or not. Hypocrisy cuts two ways. The question isn’t “Why do they act like that?” but “How can I act like that and call myself a follower of Jesus?” A historian studying Christian behavior notes that when faith becomes a social and political badge rather than a matter of the heart, people’s attitudes toward others grow harsher. Faith becomes instrumental—a tool for specific ends—rather than substantial.[i] Perhaps you’ve experienced God’s nearness but struggle to trust his people. This is one of the most painful barriers to faith: when those who claim Jesus’ name cause harm. And if we’re honest, many of us have played that part in someone else’s story, whether we meant to or not. Beneath judgmentalism often lies something deeper: fear, and a need for control. The Pharisees feared Jesus would upend their system and expose their inadequacy. Perhaps my pastor feared my desire to bridge ministry and communication didn’t fit his narrative of what ministry was supposed to be. We judge others because we’re afraid—afraid of being exposed, afraid of losing control, afraid that if we’re vulnerable, we’ll be hurt. The older I get, the more I see the value in turning the spotlight inward. We can’t control others, but we can control ourselves. Instead of asking why other people act like that, the harder question is: How can I act like that and call myself a follower of Jesus? Jesus doesn’t worry about those who judge him. Instead, he focuses on those who need healing. He says to the man with the shriveled hand, “Stand up in front of everyone.” Jesus asks him to do something vulnerable and public. It’s risky. It’s the opposite of control. It’s also where healing begins. The man does what the Pharisees refuse to do. Following Jesus often means standing apart from the religious crowd. It means being honest about your wounds. It means confronting the fear that you’re not “good enough”—and letting Jesus meet you there. Jesus never said, “Follow Christians.” He said, “Follow me.” The question isn’t whether Christians disappoint. We will. The question is whether our failure will keep us from the One we claim to follow. Because Jesus isn’t plotting murder, he’s restoring shriveled hands. Emotional honesty often has more power than apologetics. When we lead with our vulnerability, we find freedom, healing, and a very different kind of authority. The invitation stands: don’t let bad representatives keep you from the real thing. Pray Lord, forgive me for the ways I’ve misrepresented you. Forgive my fellow Christians. And forgive me for letting their failures become my excuse. Help me see you clearly, even when we, your followers, disappoint. Amen. [i] John Dickson, Bullies and Saints: An Honest Look at the Good and Evil of Christian History (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan Reflective, 2021), 268. Get full access to More Like Jesus by Len Wilson at lenwilson.substack.com/subscribe [https://lenwilson.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

The Lie That Christians Ruin Christianity

If you’re new, welcome! I am walking through Mark’s gospel of Jesus, one scene at a time. More Like Jesus is for people who want to hear the story of Jesus in a new way. You may be the church-raised, the burned-out, the one going through the motions, or the one who drifts off in church and aren’t even sure why you still go. Especially, if you’re the one who thinks you like Jesus more than Jesus’ followers. My goal is to help get us close enough to the story to let it do to us what it did to the original people standing in the room with Jesus. Today, we move into Mark, chapter 3. Things are about to take a dark turn. The Pharisees continue to argue with Jesus, but it’s more than just a conversation over drinks. The stakes are getting real. I was certain the job had gone to the wrong person. I was twenty-seven, and I did what wounded people do when they don’t care to turn the spotlight inward. I went looking for someone to blame. Some context, in fairness to the young man I was. One year out of seminary, in my first church staff job, and I was already teaching workshops around the country. I had stumbled into a rare combination: specialized knowledge and a platform at a large, fast-growing church. I don’t want to minimize either my gifts or the gift of the environment I found myself in. But in the hands of a young leader, a platform can be a real contronym, and the voice in my head ran hot with self-regard. In 1998, following some staff changes, our senior pastor reorganized the creative team and named someone to lead all of it. He chose Kim Miller—a woman in her early forties who ran our drama and live production—to head the group. I reacted poorly. I went to him and made my case: She had no theological education, I said. I was the better fit (with my fresh degree and my twenty-seven years). He listened. Then he told me, kindly, that Kim had spent those years raising three children, and that this had equipped her about as well as anything could. It took me years to realize he had called me a kid. My pastor did a wise thing that day. I had dressed up envy as discernment. He undressed it, while never raising his voice. To be honest, it wasn’t only Kim. A year before, a brilliant young artist named Jason had joined our team and become, deservedly, a star. I struggled to hand him a spotlight he had plainly earned, even as we grew close enough that I would one day stand as best man at his wedding. The whole sorry pattern had a single root, and the root was me. Many people say that the worst thing about Christianity are Christians. And they usually have receipts. The judgmental word, the cold shoulder, the envious, insecure leader who guards his turf instead of washing others’ feet. It’s all true, and the most honest thing I can tell you is that some of those receipts have my name on them. In our next scene, a man with a withered hand stands in a synagogue while the religious experts watch. They aren’t watching to help. They’re watching to catch Jesus helping him on the wrong day. Their eyes are on the rule; his eyes are on the man. And beneath their cold arithmetic sits the same thing that sat beneath mine: fear. Fear of loss. Fear of losing control, of being exposed, of a kingdom that doesn’t run on their authority. Threatened people rarely respond with open hands. They reach for the levers instead. But a Christian who fails to look like Jesus has never once made Jesus less worth following. It only proves we are exactly who he said we were—people who need him. He never asked us to follow other Christians. He asks us to follow him, which turns out to be a mercy, because “other Christians” includes me, and on my worst days it includes a young man complaining to his pastor about the good service of a dedicated Christian and mother of three. Don’t let the bad representatives keep you from the real thing. Even when one of the bad representatives is you. The Lie: Christians are judgmental, unloving, and don’t look like Jesus. The Wound: “If Jesus is so good, why are his followers so awful?” The Real Issue: I’ve been hurt by people who claim to follow Jesus—and I see my own hypocrisy. The Invitation: Jesus invites me to let go of the need to control. In the next post, we will immerse ourselves in the story of Jesus and the Pharisees in Mark 3:1-6. Over the next several entries, we will explore this story, and learn what Jesus has to say about what religion is all about. Join us by subscribing here, and invite someone you know who would enjoy walking with us as we walk with Jesus. Get full access to More Like Jesus by Len Wilson at lenwilson.substack.com/subscribe [https://lenwilson.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

The Promise | Mark 2:21-22

“No one sews a patch of unshrunk cloth on an old garment. Otherwise, the new piece will pull away from the old, making the tear worse. And no one pours new wine into old wineskins. Otherwise, the wine will burst the skins, and both the wine and the wineskins will be ruined. No, they pour new wine into new wineskins.” Mark 2:21–22 There’s a framed sketch hanging in our master bedroom that shows a young child, crouched in the dirt, playing with a stick. Below the image, it says, One hundred years from now it will not matter what kind of house I lived in, how much money I had, nor what my clothes were like. But the world may be a little better because I was important in the life of a child. My wife gave it to me years ago, around the time of our moves to Nashville and Atlanta. Receiving it initially felt like a gentle stick to the ribs. Over time, though, my attitude toward it changed. Now, it’s one of my favorite things. When we moved to Atlanta in 2012, our kids were 10, 9, 7, and 4. Unlike Texas, where every residential property has huge privacy fences, much of the Atlanta suburbs have small or no fences. Just open properties where kids could roam. We’d just settled into our home in East Cobb when one day, a neighborhood boy rang the doorbell. “Can your son come out to play?” We’d never met him or his family. It felt like 1955 and Wally Cleaver was at my door. We loved it. My older son Christian began a friendship with Bradley that lasts to this day. They’d run around the neighborhood, biking, playing in dirt, all the stuff that people lament kids don’t do anymore. It was sometime around that moment when I first voiced, “these are the good old days.” For years, I’d been striving. Trying to make a business work. Building a platform. Chasing a workable family budget. I wouldn’t have said this, but I was still operating from an instrumental kind of life. Even after February 27, 2011, I was still carrying that mindset. The mind and heart shift didn’t happen overnight. But slowly, things were beginning to change. One day, I mentioned to my bosses the name of the pastor of what was, at the time, the largest United Methodist congregation in the United States. He’d recently left his relationship with the United Methodist Publishing House (where I’d worked) and moved to a much larger and more prestigious secular publishing company, HarperCollins, in part because his book sales were so far above any other author’s. My Presbyterian bosses had never heard of him. Whoa… I thought, maybe the Methodist influencer world I’d left was smaller, more parochial, and more ephemeral than I’d ever realized! … Which also meant that all of the influence I’d been pursuing may have also been much smaller, more parochial, and more about my own success than I wanted to admit. My wife had been trying to tell me this for years. She even had a tee-shirt that said, “It’s all about the children.” In an era when women have more opportunities than perhaps at any point in the past, her choice to be fully invested in motherhood during this time in her life and their life felt particularly countercultural. Here choice to stay home was actively reorienting our family around a different set of values. And her little framed sketch was saying the same thing. My friend and colleague Arthur Jones later introduced me to a concept from author David Brooks in his book The Second Mountain, which contrasts ● Achievement values, which are about yourself: grades, money, influence ● Legacy values, which are about others: purpose, character, relationships, community One of the life visions my wife and I have always shared is of a future surrounded by our children and their families. I’ve had a vision of an elderly version of myself since I was young: I picture a big outdoor spring banquet, long tables full of food, lawn games nearby, everyone together, laughing, all in one place. My wife and I want to make our home a place people can always come to—a headquarters, as one of my daughters now calls it—a place where they are unconditionally loved. In fact, just the other day two of my young adult children told me how friends of their commented that they loved coming to eat dinner at our place, because they can relax and feel loved and safe. That’s the goal. The telos. In our story, Jesus is describing a parable about wine and wineskins: “No one pours new wine into old wineskins. Otherwise, the wine will burst the skins, and both the wine and the wineskins will be ruined. No, they pour new wine into new wineskins.” The New Testament uses two Greek words for “new.” * Neos means recently created, an upgraded version of something you already know. * Kainos means unprecedented, or something completely different. Neos new is like saying your old daily driver vehicle is breaking down, so you decide to buy a new one. Kainos new is like saying your old daily driver vehicle is breaking down, so you decide to teleport to work. The wine is neos or freshly made. But the wineskins must be kainos: not just a younger version of the same thing, but an entirely different container. Jesus doesn’t fit into the old containers. He isn’t offering an upgraded version of religion or asking people to try harder at what they were already doing. He’s offering something completely unprecedented: himself. And that requires a completely different orientation. Trying to follow Jesus with the old mindset—striving, performing, measuring success the usual way—doesn’t work. The wineskins burst. In my first era, I was trying to pour new wine into old wineskins. I was following Jesus, but I was still living instrumentally—platform, achievement, success. Eventually, it couldn’t hold. My skin burst. I needed a different way of seeing and living. The famous theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer once visited America and expected to find the best example of Christianity in the great cathedrals of New York, with their prestigious platforms and influential leaders. Instead, he said the truest expression of Christianity he encountered was in small rural chapels in Alabama, where sharecroppers and descendants of slaves—people who had suffered deeply—were filled with a strange, resilient joy. That’s kainos. Not improved circumstances, but a different reality altogether. In my first era, I was looking for Christianity in big rooms and big stages. But Jesus was showing it to me somewhere else—kids ringing doorbells, bikes left in yards, dinner tables crowded with sweaty children, laughing and exhausted from play. That framed sketch on my wall remembers my own kainos moment: The realization that 100 years from now, very little of what we call “success” will matter. Jesus is making all things new—not upgraded, but unprecedented. Life can be tough. Good days turn into bad ones, and sin and loss hurts us and those we love. We still ask, “Why, Lord?” But even now—right in the middle of it—Jesus is introducing another reality. A way of living that isn’t driven by fear, striving, or comparison. When you orient your life around Jesus’ presence instead of your own achievement, things begin to change. You will see it in your daily experience. Your values. Your priorities. Your joy. Life in the New Creation starts with presence, not performance. As we learn how to abide in this reality, we discover: these are the good old days. Pray Jesus, I’ve been trying to pour Your new wine into my old wineskins. But You’re offering something completely different. Teach me what it means to live in the New Creation. To value legacy over achievement. To be present instead of performing. Amen. Get full access to More Like Jesus by Len Wilson at lenwilson.substack.com/subscribe [https://lenwilson.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]

Out of Pocket | Mark 2:20

“But the time will come when the bridegroom will be taken from them, and on that day they will fast.” Mark 2:20 All fame, no fortune. That’s how I used to joke about my life. By 2011, I’d written books, spoken at conferences, and built a platform in the Christian influencer world. But we had four kids, and we were perpetually scraping and scrambling. Resources were always scarce. The move to Nashville in early 2011 was supposed to help. The job at the United Methodist Publishing House was prestigious, even if it didn’t pay enough. But it was better than drowning. My wife and kids stayed in Dallas to finish the school year. I moved alone to Greg Engroff’s townhouse. Then came the night of February 27, 2011, when I realized my entire life had been built on a sort of spiritual quid pro quo. I was thankful to know God was with me, but my financial troubles continued, and I saw no easy solution. I prayed for God to intervene. A few days later, I got an email from an old friend. She’d been a colleague at my first church in Ohio—the one with the screen and the dry ice, where I’d learned to use and teach on the use of new media technology in worship. Now she was working at a placement firm for church executives. “I have a position you’d be perfect for,” she wrote. “It’s a Presbyterian church in Atlanta.” I laughed it off. Presbyterian? Atlanta? I am a Methodist, I thought. I’d just moved to Nashville two months prior. My wife and kids were still in Dallas. The whole thing seemed absurd! Ridiculous. Out of pocket. I said no. Two months later, she called again. Nothing had changed—I was still in Nashville, still broke, and my family was still in Dallas. I said no again. “Are you sure?” she asked. “This really seems like you.” I said no again. It was just too different. Too much disruption. I’d barely survived the first move. A second one? Impossible. Three months later, in August, my family had arrived in Nashville, and we were getting settled in. She called a third time. “This position is really you,” she insisted. “Please consider it.” I knew enough to know that God sometimes does goofy stuff, with a wink and a smile. This seemed too goofy, though. But because she was a friend, I said, “Okay. I am going to a publishing conference in Atlanta in October, so I will take a half day and swing by the church.” I wasn’t saying yes. I was just... looking. Nine months later, we moved to Atlanta. The job offer included a substantial pay raise over my Nashville position. For the first time in a decade, we were on a sustainable financial path. We weren’t rolling in it, but it was enough. We even took a financial planning class when we arrived, learning how to make better planning decisions instead of just surviving paycheck to paycheck. God had provided. Abundantly. But not the way I expected. Not on my timeline. And definitely not through my planning. Looking back, I realize something I didn’t see at the time: the job stayed open for seven months. From March (the first call) to October (when I finally visited). Jobs don’t do that in the real world. Positions get filled. Churches move on. Candidates come and go. But this job waited. And I didn’t plan the three phone calls. I didn’t even notice the biblical pattern until years later. But there it was: Samuel hearing God’s voice three times before he understood. Jesus asking Peter three times, “Do you love me?” until Peter understood. My friend calling three times before I understood. God is persistent. God does not give up after the first no. He waits until you’re ready. I wasn’t ready in March. I was still in a scarcity mindset, still trying to control, still thinking God’s provision had to fit my plan. By October, as I write elsewhere, my new life gameplan had become to seek first. Something had shifted. Not dramatically. But enough. The job waiting for me wasn’t just about provision. It was a sign of God’s abundant patience. Back to Mark 2. Jesus says, “But the time will come when the bridegroom will be taken from them, and on that day they will fast.” He’s foreshadowing the time between His departure and the gift of the Holy Spirit—but that’s a story for a future day. Jesus is saying: My presence is the abundance. When you’re with Me, you don’t need to strive. You don’t need to scramble or manufacture your future. You just need to stay close. Imagine a river in the parched savannah. Away from the water, life is desolate. The ground cracks. Animals struggle. Everything is survival mode—Darwinian, desperate, a constant scramble. But close to the water? Life. The animals gather. The trees grow. The earth breathes. The river doesn’t make the savannah less harsh, but proximity to the water changes everything. By 2011, I had found myself living in a desert. God’s first answer, the Nashville job, was prestigious yet insufficient. I was separated from my family. I was scraping by financially. I was emotionally exhausted. But it was an oasis, a first stop on the way to the water. The first phone call from my friend? I laughed it off. Still in the desert, still in scarcity mindset. The second call? I said no. Not ready to move toward the water. The third call? I said okay. Willing to at least consider that maybe—just maybe—God was providing. By the time we moved to Atlanta, I’d learned something profound: God’s provision doesn’t always make sense on paper. It doesn’t always fit our plans. It disrupts our sense of control. But when you stay close to Jesus—when you trust His presence instead of your planning—the river is there. Not more stuff. Not riches. Just … enough. Provision. The water you need. The full circle nature of the way God moved in my life still makes me smile. My friend from that early ministry—the place where I’d learned to create a spectacle in worship—was now the one helping me find a job where I’d learn to trust God’s provision instead of my performance. God does goofy stuff. With a wink and a smile. Here’s the truth about fasting and feasting: Fasting can be helpful, but sometimes, it’s the sort of practice that you do in the desert, when you’re striving, scrambling, and trying to get God’s attention. Feasting is what you do near the river, when you’re trusting, resting, and receiving what God provides. You’re abiding in His presence. Jesus said, “When I’m with you, you feast.” By the river, the animals gather. The trees grow. The earth breathes. You rest. Jesus speaks in layers beyond our comprehension. When He said, “The time will come when the bridegroom will be taken from them, and on that day they will fast,” he was foreshadowing His own death, and also revealing something profound about what life was going to be like afterward for his disciples: proximity to His presence changes everything. Scarcity mindset is living in the desert—always scrambling, never trusting there’s enough. But when you stay close to Jesus, you find the river. Not more stuff, but sufficiency. Not wealth, but provision. Not anxiety, but rest. God’s provision may seem out of pocket. It may not fit your plan. It may disrupt your sense of control. But when you’re with Him, you have what you need. Stay close to the water. That’s where the feast is. Pray Lord, I’ve been living in scarcity—hoarding, panicking, trying to control outcomes because I don’t trust Your provision. Teach me what it means to stay close to You, to trust even when Your provision seems out of pocket. Help me move from the desert to the river, from fasting to feasting, from anxiety to rest. Amen. Get full access to More Like Jesus by Len Wilson at lenwilson.substack.com/subscribe [https://lenwilson.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4]