Out of Pocket | Mark 2:20

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]

When the Groom Calls You Out | Mark 2:19

“How can the guests of the bridegroom fast while he is with them? They cannot, so long as they have him with them.” Mark 2:19 Nothing dramatic happened. I woke up in Greg Engroff’s townhouse bedroom the morning of February 28, 2011, got ready for the day, and went to work at my new job at the United Methodist Publishing House. I knew the spiritual experience of the previous night had been real, but I had no idea what it meant. The night before, after breaking down, I’d called my wife. I filled her ear with what I’d realized—that I’d been living on spiritual quid pro quo, treating Jesus like a system instead of a Person. She listened. She felt my tears because she’s empathetic. But I think part of her didn’t know what to think. She was hurt. And she needed to see change over time before trusting again. My instrumental faith hadn’t just failed me. It had damaged the people closest to me. I’ve always written to think. So I started journaling—notes in my Bible study, thoughts about what I was discovering. This journaling became the foundation of what has become More Like Jesus. Two months later, I started a blog, partly to process my spiritual life and partly to create a new “church professional” online home as I explored whether it was possible to integrate my entire journey. I went to therapy for a while. New job opportunities emerged, which helped ease the financial strain. I learned to trust God more for my family’s financial life instead of trying to engineer outcomes through performance. In June, my family joined me in Nashville. A year later, we moved to Atlanta for a better-paying ministry job. In 2015, I released a book informed by these experiences, Think Like a Five-Year-Old, though I didn’t talk about that night in February. Nothing dramatic. Just slow, steady work. But something was changing inside me. Through my late twenties, I had played saxophone. I actually played at a few weddings—hired to provide background music during receptions. I knew no one at those events. I’d show up, set up my equipment, play standards and jazz for a couple of hours, then pack up and leave. I appreciated their joy, but I was disconnected from it. I was working. They were celebrating. I was also a wedding videographer a few times. Funny, the one time I knew the couple—my sister and her groom—I messed up the wedding videos. I guess I couldn’t enjoy the day and work it at the same time. I realized that for twenty years, I’d been the saxophonist at Jesus’ wedding. Professionally involved. Technically competent. Appreciating the joy from a distance. But I was performing. I used to even joke about being an employee for God. Jesus says, “How can the guests of the bridegroom fast while he is with them?” With his question, He’s making a radical claim. If Jesus really is the bridegroom—if He’s God entering into covenant with humanity—then this isn’t just a story about a first-century wedding. It’s a story about you and me. To call Him the Bridegroom is to say that God has entered a covenant of devotion, not distance. He doesn’t want our compliance. He wants our heart. Also, notice how Jesus adds something subtle but profound: the word “guest.” You’re not a worker or even an observer to the party. You’re a guest. That means your presence matters. It means your response matters. The host wants to know if you’re coming or not. In a wedding feast, guests aren’t passive. They’ve been invited for a reason. The expectation is that they will join the celebration. There’s history. There’s relationship. It would be an insult to blow it off. So what does it mean to not just attend a party, but to live as a guest of the bridegroom? At a wedding, the entire day is built around celebrating the moment. To be a guest of the bridegroom means your entire day is oriented around His presence. Think about that for a moment: If you truly believe Jesus is God, and you’ve been invited to His table, then nothing else can remain untouched. * Your time * Your relationships * Your money * Your desires * Even your pain It means your life becomes a response to His invitation. Not a checklist or a performance, but a reorientation of your entire being. When Jesus becomes your bridgegroom, everything else begins to orbit around Him. Your appetites find new purpose. Your attachments lose their grip. Your ambitions are reshaped into offerings. Jesus doesn’t ask you to manage sin with more willpower. He asks you to surrender your whole self to the joy of being with Him. Over time, that surrender reshapes you. You become more free, more alive, and more like Him, not because you’re trying harder, but because you’re staying closer. Over time, you will change. You’ll become more whole. More holy. More fully alive. This process has a name in Christian theology: entire sanctification, which means a life increasingly marked not by sin, but by love. This isn’t behavior management, but love, perfected over time. Not in knowledge alone or in behavior alone, but in being. This is the strange and beautiful logic of discipleship: God’s ongoing presence leads to a change of your entire self. In those years after February 27, 2011, change came. It was slow, and some days my life felt no better than it had been before. The financial pressure continued. The challenges of marriage and parenting didn’t magically disappear. I still struggled. But the first and biggest change become my ability to respond, which was fundamentally different. The best word I know to describe it is release. I was no longer trying to live up to a standard I couldn’t achieve. I wasn’t managing my performance to earn God’s favor or building a platform to prove I was a competent Christian leader. I was learning to be a guest at the wedding feast. Not performing. Not working the event like the sax player. Celebrating the Groom. My wife needed to see change over time before trusting again. And that’s exactly what sanctification is—transformation that others can witness because it’s real, not performed. It took years. The change in my life still happening! The seeds planted in tears that February night bore fruit slowly. But they bore fruit. And now, thirteen years later, I’m writing More Like Jesus from the fruit of those seeds. If Jesus really is the bridegroom, then this isn’t just a story about a first-century wedding. It’s a story about you. You can’t perform your way into His presence. You can only accept the invitation and show up as a guest. When Jesus is at the center of your life, everything else begins to orbit around Him. Not because you’re trying harder, but because you’re staying close. This is what it means to live as a guest of the bridegroom: your entire life oriented around His presence. Pray Jesus, if You are the bridegroom, then You deserve more than my courtesy or even my habits. You deserve my heart. Help me release every attachment that keeps me from loving You fully. Teach me what it means to be a guest at Your wedding feast—not performing but celebrating. Lead me into joy. 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]

The Question You Can't Avoid | Mark 2:18-19

Now John’s disciples and the Pharisees were fasting. Some people came and asked Jesus, “How is it that John’s disciples and the disciples of the Pharisees are fasting, but yours are not?” Jesus answered, “How can the guests of the bridegroom fast while he is with them? They cannot, so long as they have him with them.” Mark 2:18-19 By the time I turned 40, I’d gone as far as I could go. I was very good at doing church. It led me to become a 2-bit celebrity in the contemporary church world. I had a platform, a large professional network, spoke dozens of times a year, and had sold 50,000 books or so. Listing this makes me think of the apostle Paul in his letters, talking about his zeal for the old way. That’s how I was. I was a Christian in the best way I knew how. But I had not experienced the fullness of the faith. It wasn’t yet substantial. The story of what happened that changed things is long and complicated, but essentially, my old ways stopped working. The small parachurch business I owned with my ministry partner suffered under changing economic conditions in 2008-09, partly due to the Great Recession but also because of the rise of the smartphone era. Smartphones were rapidly murdering two of our prime income streams: book reading and attending conferences. Our other main stream was short film and video production, and that was in danger, too. “Content” had begun its online slide to a commodity. By 2010, what had once been a profitable business was losing up to $5,000 per month. For the two of us, that was a serious problem. My own spiritual life was at a breakpoint, too. My wife and I had had our fourth child, and I was done with trying to be the perfect husband and father. I had thought I knew the rules of marriage and parenthood, and I was good at managing them, but I was becoming overwhelmed. I knew I couldn’t keep going. I was becoming desperate. I doubted my ability to keep performing my roles at a high level. And yes, that’s how I thought of it. I actually did the math on walking away from it all—not only my career, but my marriage and everything I’d built my life on. I spoke to my father about it, too. He was very practical. He said, son, sounds like you’d go bankrupt. I felt completely and utterly stuck. In November of that year, I decided to try writing one more book. It was all I knew to do. Writing was my first gift—I’d declared at age 13 that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up, and that’s never really changed. I’d published nine books by November of 2010, and each one had boosted my career. I pitched a new book on story to my editor. He responded with a job offer to come to Nashville and work at the United Methodist Publishing House. I immediately said yes. The position didn’t pay enough to cover our large young family’s needs, and I was going to have to sell my half of our company. But to a drowning man, even an insufficient little life ring is better than just treading water in the deep. My wife agreed but suggested I go without her and the kids so they could finish the school year. I think she really just wanted a break from living with me. So I went alone, to the second-floor townhouse bedroom of a man I’d never met, Greg Engroff. It was in that bedroom, on the evening of February 27, 2011, when I stumbled on an online sermon by a preacher from Oklahoma City whose name I do not know and whose message I do not remember, that I broke down. The dam finally gave way to the pressure of the floodwaters behind. What I realized that night was that my entire adult life had been built on a sort of spiritual quid pro quo which was not in fact the gospel at all. I’d been treating Jesus like a teacher who gave me a system to do. Follow the rules. Build the platform. Be a good husband. Be a good father. Serve the church. Write the books. Speak at the conferences. And if you do it right, God will bless you. But the system had collapsed. The business was failing. My marriage was strained. I was exhausted. And I was alone in a stranger’s bedroom, weeping from the weight of it all, realizing that everything I’d built my life on was constructed on the wrong foundation. If Jesus is just a teacher, but His system doesn’t work... then what? Is He just another failed system? Or is He someone I’ve completely misunderstood? Back to Mark 2. The “some people” asking Jesus about fasting were trying to catch Him. They asked why His disciples didn’t fast like John’s or the Pharisees’. What they really meant was: What makes you so different? Jesus answered with an image. “You don’t fast at a wedding,” He said. “You feast.” For those with ears to hear, He was claiming something astonishing: I’m the bridegroom. I’m the one the wedding is about. Jesus’ listeners would have caught the reference immediately. Throughout the Old Testament—Jeremiah, Isaiah, Hosea—God called Israel His bride. They were once devoted to Him, but the relationship had gone wrong. God was broken-hearted, calling them home. Now Jesus is saying: You are the bride, and I am the bridegroom. It can’t be more clear to his listeners. Jesus is saying: I’m not like my cousin John. I’m not like the Pharisees. I’m not just another voice in the crowd—I am the bridegroom.I’m the one Israel has been betrothed to all along. The wedding feast has begun. This moment—eating with tax collectors, healing on Sabbath, gathering disciples—this is the celebration everyone’s been waiting for. Jesus is saying it without saying it: I am God. His words create a trilemma—a situation requiring a choice between three options. You know about a dilemma? A situation requiring a difficult choice between two options? A trilemma is like a dilemma, but with three variables. The Jesus trilemma is this: Is He a liar, a lunatic, or the Lord? The question is commonly attributed to C.S. Lewis, from his book Mere Christianity. It originated much earlier, though. In fact, variations of the question go back to the writings of the apostle John in the New Testament. The trilemma is this: Jesus can’t simply be “a good teacher” or “one of many spiritual voices” because He made claims no “good” man would make. By this time in our story, He’s already claimed to bring the kingdom of God (Mark 1:15) and to forgive sins (Mark 2:5). We’re only two chapters into Mark’s story, and now, He’s claiming to be the bridegroom—God Himself in human form. As Lewis writes, A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronising nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.[1] In other words, when we truly consider what Jesus said, we have only three options: ● He was deluded (a lunatic). ● He was deceptive (a liar). ● He was divine (the Lord). Lewis was writing to a British population who were prone to see Jesus as a great moral teacher, like Buddha or Gandhi. As Lewis points out, when you begin to understand who Jesus said He was, such an attitude makes no sense. From the start, Mark shows us exactly who Jesus is. God’s voice affirms it at His baptism. Even the demons recognize it. The only question is: do we? On February 27, 2011, sitting in that bedroom in Nashville, I had to face this question. I’d spent 40 years treating Jesus as a great teacher. A moral guide. But that wasn’t working anymore. If Jesus is just a teacher, and His system fails, then what good is He? But if Jesus is Lord—if He really is God Himself, claiming me as His bride—then everything I thought I knew about Christianity was wrong. Religion wasn’t about using Jesus to build a successful life, But about knowing Jesus. Abiding in Him. Not a system to follow. A Person to love. Not an instrumental faith. A substantial faith. If you’re serious about Jesus, you’ll eventually have to answer this question: Who do you say Jesus is? Many stay curious but hesitant—they enjoy His teachings and the civilization that arises from his church but won’t commit to Him as Lord. But Jesus doesn’t let you reduce Him to a safe, wise figure who fits your framework. He is either a liar, a lunatic, or the Lord God Almighty. Every few decades, culture tries to rebrand Jesus. A wise teacher. A moral voice. A radical prophet. But Jesus never gave us that option. He claimed to be the bridegroom, the long-awaited fulfillment of God’s promise to restore the world.That’s not something a good teacher says. That’s something only a lunatic or a scheming liar could say—unless He was really God. You can’t treat Jesus as one spiritual option among many, because He didn’t. He is either the Son of God, or He is not. There is no middle ground. Eventually, you have to answer the question: Who do you say He is? Pray Lord, thank You for Your patience and grace as I learn more about You. Reveal Yourself to me. Show me who You really are. I don’t want to use You. I want to know You. Amen. [1] C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity (New York: Macmillan, 1952), 40–41. 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]

What "More Like Jesus" Means | Mark 2:18

Mark 2:18 When I was a teenager, I’d walk the hospital wards with my dad. He was a chaplain at the VA hospital in Temple, Texas, and sometimes I’d go with him on rounds. Old men and women in white gowns, smoking bottom-end generic cigarettes with that stale smell, sitting around lobbies of white walls and fluorescent lights. At first it was kind of creepy. Over time, it became tragic. This may sound dumb, but to my teenage self, I realized something important: all of them were people. Most were quite lonely. And yet, in that place—surrounded by brokenness and addiction and loneliness—I saw something real. I saw my dad sit with them. Listen to them. Pray with them. I saw a few of them respond to his presence, like coming out of a fog. Contrast that with my church. 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]