There is a moment most of us know from the inside.

You have worked hard. Built something. Followed the right signals and made the responsible decisions and shown up consistently for the thing you believed in. And then something bent. The plan didn’t survive contact with reality. The formula stopped producing life even though it kept producing output. The room you were leading or creating in or worshipping in started to feel like it was running on fumes instead of fire.

Most of us, in that moment, do the understandable thing. We work harder. Tighten the system. Refine the formula. Wait for better conditions before we release the thing we’ve been holding.

What if that moment isn’t a malfunction?

What if it’s an invitation?

The Book I Had to Live Before I Could Write

The Creativity of Grace: How Imperfect People Create Beautiful Things is the book that came out of the hardest season of my professional life.

After more than fifty published titles, years of consulting with ministries and publishers, coaching college athletes, and pastoring churches, I relocated across the country for what I believed was my next chapter. Within six months I knew the fit was wrong. Not the people. Not the mission. The fit. The kind of wrong you feel in your chest before you can name it in a sentence.

I could have performed my way through it. Instead I surrendered the role and started driving rideshare through a city I barely knew, with no platform, no institutional standing, and no plan beyond staying present to whatever came next.

What came next became this book.

Not because the story had a tidy resolution. Because grace doesn’t wait for tidy. Grace does not stop creating when your plan collapses. It just starts working on something you couldn’t have designed yourself.

What This Book Is Actually About

The Creativity of Grace is not a creativity book in the conventional sense. It is not a collection of productivity tips or a framework for innovative thinking or a manifesto about disrupting your industry.

It is a book about a force.

The most creative force in the universe, which turns out not to be talent or vision or strategy or the kind of polished excellence that fills a room before the speaker opens their mouth. It is grace. And grace, as it turns out, does its most significant and most beautiful work not in the straight, well-mapped, everything-is-working sections of our lives.

It works in the curves.

In the interrupted plans. In the unfinished people. In the cracked vessels and the wilderness seasons and the rooms that have been running the same formula for so long that nobody inside them can hear the story anymore.

Law creates structure. Grace creates beauty. The book traces what that distinction looks like across fifteen chapters organized into three movements: seeing differently, moving differently, and creating differently.

Who This Book Is For

If you lead an organization or a team and you have quietly noticed that your culture is producing competent people who used to be creative ones, this book is for you.

If you pastor or serve in ministry and the gap between what your programs produce and what the people in your community actually need has been growing in ways nobody is quite willing to name yet, this book is for you.

If you are a creative person, a writer or songwriter or designer or communicator, who has been holding something back because it isn’t perfect yet and the right moment hasn’t arrived yet, this book is for you.

If you are a leader who has watched a room full of genuinely gifted people stop bringing their best ideas because the culture you built, without ever intending to, taught them that the cost of creative risk was too high, this book is for you.

And if you are simply someone who has been in the curve longer than you expected and are trying to figure out whether what feels like failure might actually be formation, this book was written for you most of all.

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A Few Things You’ll Find Inside

The book moves through territory that is theological without being heavy, organizational without being clinical, and personal without being self-indulgent. Here is some of what’s waiting inside.

Why your imperfections are not disqualifying information. They are often the specific places where grace does its most significant creative work. The Japanese art of kintsugi, the practice of repairing broken pottery with gold, turns out to be a surprisingly precise description of how grace operates in a human life.

Why the formula that built the room is not the same thing as the life that fills it. Every institution, ministry, and creative culture eventually faces the moment when the system that was built to serve the mission starts to replace it. The chapter on breaking the formula is one of the most practically useful in the book for organizational leaders.

Why perfectionism is not a quality control system. It is an image management system. And the difference between chasing excellence and chasing perfection is not a matter of degree. It is a matter of direction. One keeps your face turned toward the people the work was made for. The other keeps it turned toward the mirror.

Why the most important conversations in ministry and leadership begin before the content does. Reaching people before trying to fix them. Sharing the table before issuing the curriculum. Building the bridge that makes the teaching receivable rather than simply delivering the teaching and wondering why it isn’t landing.

Why the curve is not the interruption of the meaningful life. It is frequently where the meaningful life gets built. The chapter on hitting the curve, drawn from the theology of the curveball in baseball, is the one readers have told me most changed how they understand seasons of disruption and uncertainty.

The Endorsement I Didn’t Expect

When I sat down with Josh Lindblom, a retired Major League Baseball pitcher, and Tommy Kyle, the Executive Director of Nations of Coaches, at a gathering hosted by the WinShape Foundation, I had no agenda beyond showing up honestly. These were accomplished people. I had things I could have said to impress them.

Instead I told them the truth. About the six-month pastorate. About driving strangers through an unfamiliar city at midnight. About sitting on the curve I didn’t expect to be on and what the curve was teaching me.

The conversation that followed was one of the most freeing and fruitful I’d had in years.

WinShape Leadership, Nations of Coaches, and The Co-Mission, the marriage coaching ministry of Josh and Aurielle Lindblom, have all since contracted me to create or refresh creative content for their ministries.

Not because of the impressive version of the story.

Because of the one only grace could write.

That is exactly what this book is about.

Grace Is Not Finished

The theology at the center of this book is simple enough to say in a sentence and deep enough to spend a lifetime inside.

Grace is the most creative force in the universe. It does not require clean material, finished people, resolved stories, or ideal conditions. It requires availability. And the imperfect person who opens their hands and offers what they actually have, in the condition it is actually in, is precisely the kind of vessel grace has always chosen to build beautiful things through.

The manger should have settled this question permanently. The borrowed tomb settled it again. And the dry bones in the valley and the cracked jar and the five loaves and the woman who called the neighbors in before she swept the floor, all of them are saying the same thing in the same insistent voice.

Grace builds beautiful things with imperfect people.

That is the thesis. That is the invitation. That is the story this book is trying to tell

The Creativity of Grace: How Imperfect People Create Beautiful Things is available now wherever books are sold.

If you lead a ministry, organization, or creative team and want to explore what this philosophy looks like applied to the culture you are building, visit hungryplanet.net.

The curve is not the end of the road.

It is where grace was waiting to begin.

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When COVID-19 shut down Nashville in 2020, the city faced an unusual crisis: a severe shortage of rideshare drivers. Essential workers couldn’t get to their jobs. Healthcare professionals struggled to reach hospitals. The city’s circulatory system was failing.

As a pastor, I saw an opportunity to serve in a way I’d never imagined. Since my office hours went to zero, what if my vehicle could become a rolling chaplaincy? What if the front seat could become a confessional, a counseling office, a place of service and encounter between the sacred and the everyday?

Even though burdened with wearing a mask and wiping down my backseat after every ride, I signed up to drive.

The Glitch and the Calling

When my wife Hayley and I moved back to Oregon, I tried to continue driving. But a technical glitch locked my location to Nashville. No matter what I did, the app insisted I was still in Tennessee. Frustrated and overwhelmed with the passing of my sister shortly after we moved there, I gave up.

Fast forward to our move to Wisconsin—2,700 miles from family, following what we believed was a call to shepherd people in Southeast Wisconsin. I retackled that stubborn glitch both out of wanting more financial security between writing and speaking gigs but also what better way to get to know the city and its people? God intervened (with a tiny bit of inspired ingenuity on my part) and I quickly achieved Diamond status in Milwaukee, the highest tier of driver recognition.

But I discovered something profound in the transition from Nashville to Milwaukee: I’d moved from a city of tourists to a city of necessity.

In Nashville, I mostly drove visitors—people exploring, celebrating, experiencing the city’s music and energy. In Milwaukee, I mostly drive people without cars, without driver’s licenses, people in seasons of financial hardship with vehicles broken down and no means to repair them. The difference isn’t just demographic. It’s theological.

These aren’t people passing through. These are neighbors. And neighbor-love, as Scripture reminds us, isn’t abstract theology. It’s incarnational practice.

Eavesdropping on Providence

One of the reasons I started driving rideshare is to serve others that I didn’t know; to open myself up to “God appointments” I otherwise wouldn’t have margin for. The purpose? I offer tangible help to those in need. I committed to pass on whatever I made on three semi-random days of the month (a tenth of the calendar) to people who God puts in my vehicle where I sense a need. I’ve learned that some of the most sacred moments happen when people don’t know they’re being witnessed. People in the service industry know this all too well and rideshare drivers are no exception.

A single mother on her phone, heading to her shift at an assisted living facility, explaining to her friend that she’d found three mattresses online for $70 each—exactly what her kids needed to replace their broken-down beds. But it would take two more paychecks to afford them, and she worried the sale would end.

I handed her $200 at the end of the ride.

“This gives me hope,” she said, tears forming. “Hope that God hasn’t forgotten me.”

Then there was Santa and his slightly hungover reindeer “Dancer” who needed a ride to the tow yard the morning after a downtown Christmas party. (You can watch the encounter and see their reaction in the Instagram reel below.)

Instagram

Sometimes the gift isn’t money. It’s wisdom, offered only when invited. Teaching a young person how to set boundaries with a parent without severing the relationship entirely. Affirming a young woman who’d just navigated a phone call with a possessive boyfriend, reminding her of her intrinsic worth.

The Incompleteness of the Moment

But here’s what gnawed at me: these moments of practical help, while valuable, felt incomplete.

I could meet an immediate need. I could offer perspective in a crisis. But then the ride ended. They stepped out of my vehicle and back into their lives, and I had no way to leave something lasting with them—something that might continue speaking when I was no longer there.

The front seat is a powerful pulpit, but it’s a fleeting one.

That’s why I created Your Daily Lift: An Uber-Inspiring Little Book to Start Your Day and Jumpstart Your Life.

A Book for the In-Between

Your Daily Lift is a 31-day devotional designed specifically for people in transit—both literally and spiritually. People stuck in traffic, stuck in cycles, stuck between who they were and who they’re trying to become.

It starts with hope, not religion. It introduces purpose before belief. It reveals presence before doctrine. And only in the final third of the book does it gently name God and offer a clear invitation to follow Jesus to carpool into the family of God.

I wrote it for the riders in my backseat. But I also wrote it for every rideshare driver who wants to share hope with their passengers in a non-threatening way that lasts longer than a seven-minute ride from Point A to Point B.

This book is my voice carrying on the conversation. It’s my ministry extended beyond my shift. It’s the seed I can plant that God tends long after the ride ends.

An Invitation to Partner

I enter the lives of at least 50 different people each week through my typical rideshare schedule. That’s an evangelism/discipleship calendar that most pastors would envy (or dread 😢.) But it’s also expensive if I’m giving each person a book.

At $6 per book, that’s $300 per week, $1,200 per month. Just this morning I gave away six books!

Here’s how you can participate in this front-seat ministry:

Level One: Buy One, Gift One
Purchase a copy on Amazon for $11.99. For every copy sold, I’ll gift a copy to a rider who needs it.

Level Two: Sponsor Part of My Calendar

• $60 = 10 books gifted covering one day’s rides

• $300 = 50 books gifted covering one week

• $1200 = 200 books gifted cover one month

Clicking the button below is a one-time sponsorship, not recurring. You can even pick the day/week of the month to remember a loved one that needs the hope of God and I’ll dedicate that day and my prayers for sharing the gospel in thanksgiving to you and your loved one including some stories of our shared God appointments! Just make a comment on this post telling me about your sponsorship and what day you’d like or message me on social media.

Sponsor 10+ books!

Level Three: Equip Your Church’s Drivers
Share this post with rideshare drivers and pastors at your church. Buy copies in bulk directly from me. Print labels with your church’s information and place them inside the back cover with an invitation to visit (use the back cover so that the 31 days build a relationship before any invitation.) Turn every Uber and Lyft driver in your community into a distributed chaplaincy and hope dealer.

Not every rider will take a book. But most will. Here’s a sample entry from early in the devo:

And every book carries the potential for an encounter with hope they didn’t expect to find in the backseat of a stranger’s car.

The Stories You’ll Hear

When you partner with this ministry, you’re not just funding books. You’re funding encounters. And I’ll share those stories with you—the Mattress Moms and Hungover Santas, the quiet victories and unexpected moments of grace.

Because here’s what I’ve learned in the front seat: God is already at work in people’s lives. Sometimes He just needs a driver willing to show up, an author willing to write, and partners willing to believe that hope can travel from the front seat to the heart.

I came to Milwaukee wanting to reach the community with the love of Jesus. Who knew that so much of my shepherding would happen from behind the wheel?

God did!

(To read the conclusion to the devotional to see how the book ends with an invitation to travel the next mile of life with Jesus along with a note to other rideshare drivers, click the download button below.)

Your Daily Lift Conclusion Sample

73.1KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

To purchase Your Daily Lift on Amazon:

Get the book!

To sponsor books for riders:

Sponsor 10+ books!

To order bulk copies for your church or other drivers:

Order in bulk!

Let’s flood the backseats of America with hope and the love of Jesus, one ride at a time.

Brief FAQ

Q: Can any rideshare driver do ministry work?
A: Absolutely. You don’t need to be ordained. You just need to care about people and be willing to listen, serve, and share hope in appropriate ways.

Q: Is it legal to give religious materials to riders?
A: Yes. Offering (not forcing) a free book is perfectly legal and falls under personal expression. The key is the gentle offer without pressure.

Q: How do I start a rideshare ministry?
A: Begin with prayer, intentional listening, and practical generosity. Create space for organic conversations and let God guide the encounters.

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When Your Marriage Becomes Another Thing You’re Managing

I want to introduce you to two people who changed how I think about marriage under pressure.

Their names are Josh and Aurielle Lindblom. And their story will sound familiar to a lot of you.

The Pro Athlete With the Status-Quo Marriage

Josh spent fifteen years in professional baseball. Not as a benchwarmer but as a starter. He pitched in the major leagues, played internationally, and lived the dream millions of guys would trade everything for.

Aurielle was right there with him. High school sweethearts. Four kids. Fifteen years of moves across time zones, long seasons apart, constant public scrutiny, and the relentless grind that comes with elite athletics.

From the outside, they had it all together.

On the inside, they knew their marriage was not what it was supposed to be and it should be better, but they just settled for the status quo.

Marriage had become logistics management. Another thing on the to-do list. Another area where they were expected to perform. And despite being surrounded by professional coaches for every other area of life (strength coaches, pitching coaches, mental performance coaches), no one had ever taught them how to actually stay married well when life is chaos.

Sound familiar?

The Fight That Changed Everything

One day, it all came to a head.

They had one of those “benches-clearing” fights. The kind where everything that’s been simmering beneath the surface finally explodes. And in the aftermath, they realized something sobering:

They were losing each other in the middle of chasing something good.

That’s when they made a choice that would change the trajectory of their marriage and, eventually, the trajectory of hundreds of other marriages too.

They decided to invest whatever it took to figure this out. Not just read a book and hope for the best. Not just attend a weekend seminar and call it good. They committed to the time, energy, money, research, study, and even professional certifications necessary to get the big momentum shift they both desperately needed.

And it worked.

Not because they’re exceptional. But because they stopped trying to white-knuckle their way through and started learning how marriage actually works when you’re living under pressure.

From Survival to Mission

That process didn’t just save their marriage. It launched a ministry.

Today, Josh and Aurielle run The Co-Mission, a marriage coaching ministry specifically designed for couples living in high-pressure worlds. Athletes. Executives. Military families. Ministry leaders. Anyone whose marriage is getting crushed under the weight of a demanding life.

They’re not your typical marriage counselors. They don’t do theory. They do truth wrapped in reality.

Because here’s what they know that a lot of marriage ministries miss:

Telling exhausted couples to “just prioritize your marriage” without teaching them how is like telling a drowning person to “just swim harder.”

It’s not helpful. It’s just more pressure.

So instead, Josh and Aurielle teach couples how to stay connected even when life is chaos. How to move from managing logistics to actually being teammates. How to build small, sustainable rhythms that don’t require you to quit your job or move to the suburbs.

They get it. Because they’ve lived it.

Why I’m Writing About This

A couple of months ago, Josh reached out and asked if I’d help him and Aurielle create their print resources for their ministry including a 21-day devotional for couples preparing for marriage intensives.

I said yes immediately.

Why? Because I’ve spent the last two decades writing for men about identity, purpose, and what it means to follow God in the real world. And one thing I’ve learned over and over is this: a man who gets his identity right but loses his marriage hasn’t won. He’s lost what matters most.

You can be killing it in your career, leading in your church, respected in your community, and still be disconnected from the person sleeping next to you. And if that’s where you are, all the success in the world won’t fill that void.

So when Josh and Aurielle asked me to help them create a resource specifically for couples who are overwhelmed, exhausted, and wondering if their marriage can actually change, I jumped at it.

Because this is the kind of resource I wish existed when I was navigating the pressure-cooker seasons of my own life.

Introducing “21 Days Together”

The devotional is called 21 Days Together: A Co-Mission Marriage Devotional.

It’s not another “10 steps to a perfect marriage” book. It’s not fluffy. It’s not unrealistic. And it’s not going to ask you to do things you don’t have time for.

Here’s what it is:

A 21-day journey designed for couples who don’t have margin but desperately need a reset.

Each day takes 10 to 15 minutes. You read it together. You talk through a few questions. You do one small, actionable step. You pray together. That’s it.

Over three weeks, you’ll walk through:

• Week 1: A New Perspective – What God actually says about marriage (not what culture sold you)

• Week 2: A New Mindset – How to see each other and yourself differently

• Week 3: A New Way Forward – Small rhythms that rebuild connection even in chaos

The whole thing is grounded in Scripture, rooted in real stories, and built for people who are skeptical that a devotional can actually help.

But here’s the thing: it’s not the devotional that does the work. It’s showing up. It’s being willing. It’s committing to 21 days of putting your marriage in front of everything else screaming for your attention.

And that’s where transformation happens.

What Makes This Different

I’ve read a lot of marriage books. I’ve written curriculum. I know what’s out there.

Here’s what makes 21 Days Together different:

1. It’s honest.
Josh and Aurielle don’t pretend marriage is easy. They don’t gloss over the hard parts. They tell the truth: marriage under pressure is brutal. And if you’re struggling, you’re not failing. You’re just human.

2. It’s practical.
Every day gives you one small step. Not ten things to remember. Not an overwhelming assignment. Just one thing you can actually do.

3. It’s doable.
Ten to fifteen minutes. That’s all. You can do that even on your worst day.

4. It’s real.
At the end of each day, Josh and Aurielle share a sentence or two of their own honest reaction to that day’s content. They alternate who gets “the last word.” It’s their way of saying: we’re not writing from theory. We’re writing from the trenches. And if this helped us, it can help you too.

Who This Is For

This devotional is for you if:

• Your marriage feels more like logistics management than partnership

• You’re preparing for a marriage intensive or coaching and need to prep your heart

• You’re not in crisis but you’re not thriving either, and you want to be proactive

• You’re exhausted from trying the same things and getting the same results

• You need hope that things can actually change

• You’re skeptical but willing to try

It’s also for the guy who knows something’s off but doesn’t know where to start. The guy who’s been told to “prioritize his marriage” but has no idea what that actually looks like when he’s already maxed out.

This gives you a starting point.

Why I’m Recommending This

I don’t promote a lot of resources. I’m selective about what I put in front of you because I know your time matters and your trust matters.

But I’m recommending this because:

1. I know Josh and Aurielle. They’re the real deal. What they’re teaching, they’ve lived.

2. I helped create it. I’ve seen every word. I know the care that went into this. And I believe in it.

3. Your marriage matters. You can be a God Guy in every other area of your life, but if you lose your marriage, you’ve lost something irreplaceable. This is one small tool that can help you protect what matters most.

How to Get It

You can grab 21 Days Together: A Co-Mission Marriage Devotional here.

And if you want to learn more about Josh and Aurielle’s story or explore their coaching options, head over to thecomission.co.

Whether you use the devotional as prep for deeper work or just as a way to reset, it’s worth the investment. Twenty-one days. Ten to fifteen minutes a day. That’s all.

Your marriage is worth that.

A Final Thought

Here’s what I’ve learned after decades of writing about what it means to be a man who follows God:

You can get your identity right, your purpose clear, and your mission aligned and still lose your marriage if you’re not intentional.

And losing your marriage doesn’t just cost you a relationship. It costs you your witness, your peace, your partnership, and often, your kids’ view of what a godly marriage looks like.

So if your marriage is barely surviving the pressure, don’t just hope it gets better. Do something.

Start small. Start with 21 days.

Josh and Aurielle will walk you through it. And I’m cheering for you every step of the way.

Let’s build marriages that last.

Michael

P.S. If you grab the devotional, let me know how it goes. I’d love to hear your story. And if you know a couple who needs this, forward this post to them. Sometimes the best thing we can do for someone we care about is hand them a tool and say, “This might help.”

Get 21 Days Together here →

Learn more about The Co-Mission →

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There’s something profoundly honest about a holiday season that doesn’t go according to plan. When someone pointed out that a wooden yard nativity scene looks like two T-Rexs, I felt I’d never see the decoration the same way again.

I was right.

Holiday plans rarely go as planned. You know the moments: the wrapping paper that won’t cooperate, the burnt cookies, the family tension that simmers beneath forced cheerfulness, the financial strain that makes every purchase feel weighted with guilt. We’ve constructed elaborate expectations around Christmas, glossy images of perfection that mock our actual, beautifully broken reality.

And yet, somewhere in the midst of our tangled lights and fraying patience, we’ve forgotten the most subversive truth of the first Christmas: it was a complete disaster by every human metric.

The Scandal of the Stable

“One Jacked Up Christmas” isn’t just a song. It’s a theological recalibration. It dares to name what the sanitized nativity scenes never quite capture: the utter chaos of God’s entrance into human history.

No hospital. No family support system. No room. No plan that made sense to anyone watching.

Mary, far from home, laboring in a livestock shelter. Joseph, helpless to provide anything remotely adequate. Shepherds, society’s outcasts, chosen as the first witnesses. Wise men following celestial signs, bringing gifts fit for royalty to a baby surrounded by animal feed.

This wasn’t Christmas as we’ve carefully curated it. This was heaven crashing through stable walls, glory wrapped in vulnerability, the infinite compressed into fragile infant flesh.

Why Your Playlist Needs This Song

Here’s what makes “One Jacked Up Christmas” essential listening this season: it gives you permission to bring your actual life to the manger.

The song doesn’t ask you to pretend your Christmas is perfect. It doesn’t demand you manufacture joy you don’t feel or present a highlight reel of holiday bliss. Instead, it invites you into the truth that your “jacked up” reality is exactly where God shows up.

“So bring your jacked up Christmas chaos / Bring your mess, He won’t betray us”

These aren’t empty words of comfort. They’re a theological claim rooted in the incarnation itself: that God doesn’t wait for us to get it together before showing up. He arrives in the middle of our mess, choosing the broken stable stall precisely because that’s where we actually live.

The Strength Born in Being Weak

There’s a line in the bridge that haunts me: “The King arrived, unrecognized / God with us, in flesh disguised.”

We spend so much energy trying to recognize God in the spectacular, the perfect moment, the ideal circumstances, the breakthrough we’ve been praying for. But the first Christmas whispers a different wisdom: God often arrives unrecognized in the ordinary, the difficult, the disappointingly human.

The shepherds knew. The wise men sought. They understood what we’re still learning: that authentic strength is born in the acknowledgment of our weakness, that glory emerges from the very places we’d rather hide.

A Different Kind of Christmas Song

This isn’t background music for your holiday gathering, though it would serve beautifully there. It’s a companion for the actual experience of living through December: tired, worn, carrying heavy loads, wearing thin on patience and resources.

“One Jacked Up Christmas” meets you in traffic, in the overwhelm of another obligation, in the recognition that this year didn’t unfold as you’d hoped. And instead of offering empty platitudes, it redirects your attention to the first Christmas, where nothing went as planned and everything changed anyway.

The Invitation

Add “One Jacked Up Christmas” to your playlist not because it will make your season magically better, but because it will help you see your season more truthfully. It will remind you that the story we celebrate began in chaos, in uncertainty, in circumstances that made no sense, and precisely there, Immanuel arrived.

God with us. Not God waiting for us to create the perfect conditions. Not God showing up after we’ve cleaned up our mess. God with us, in the mess, choosing the stable over the palace, the broken over the polished, the real over the pretend.

This Christmas, when your lights tangle and your patience thins, when you’re racing through stores forgetting what you’re waiting for, let this song remind you: you’re not too jacked up for Christmas. You’re exactly where the story began.

“When heaven crashed through stable walls / One jacked up Christmas, He came for all.”

He came for all. Even, especially, in the chaos.

“One Jacked Up Christmas” is available now on all major streaming platforms. Add it to your holiday rotation and discover what happens when you bring your real Christmas to meet the first one.

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November 11, 2025

There’s something profoundly fitting about releasing a book of prayers on Veterans Day. Not because prayers and patriotism always walk hand-in-hand (they don’t, and shouldn’t be forced to) but because both require a particular kind of courage that we’ve largely forgotten how to name.

The veteran knows what it means to lay down comfort for duty, to choose sacrifice over safety, to stand in the gap for people who will never know their name. The intercessor knows a parallel courage: to stand before God on behalf of a nation that may never acknowledge the prayer, to hold in tension both love and lament, to believe that unseen warfare matters as much as the seen.

Today, on Veterans Day 2025, Prayers from Sea to Shining Sea enters the world. It’s a book I never planned to write, emerging instead from an idea a dear friend didn’t have the time to create and a restlessness I couldn’t shake—a sense that America’s 250th birthday deserved more than commentary, more than celebration, more than the performative patriotism that requires no personal cost. It deserved intercession.

The Uncomfortable Territory of Patriotic Prayer

I’ll confess: I’ve spent years uncomfortable with the fusion of faith and nationalism. I’ve watched too many prayers become political weapons, too much patriotism baptized without confession, too many flags waved while the prophetic voice stayed silent. The easy path would have been to avoid this entirely; to let America’s Semiquincentennial pass without spiritual reflection, to keep my prayers private and my patriotism cautious.

But that restlessness wouldn’t relent.

Because here’s the tension I couldn’t escape: if I truly believe prayer matters, if I genuinely trust that God hears and responds to intercession, then my silence about my country isn’t neutrality; it’s neglect. Not the kind of patriotism that wraps itself in the flag and declares itself righteous, but the kind that wrestles with God over a nation the way Abraham wrestled over Sodom, the way Moses interceded for Israel, the way Nehemiah wept over Jerusalem’s walls.

The prayers in this book emerge from that wrestling.

Two Hundred and Fifty Prayers for Two Hundred and Fifty Years

The structure became clear early on: 250 prayers for 250 years. But what does a nation need prayed over it? Not just affirmation of its greatness; though there is greatness to acknowledge. Not just condemnation of its failures; though there are failures that demand confession.

A nation needs prayers that see it whole.

So these 250 prayers traverse the full landscape of American life: all fifty states and six territories, each with its own character, its own wounds, its own glory. Prayers for the communities where we actually live; cities and suburbs, rural crossroads and tourist towns, the forgotten places and the celebrated ones. Prayers for the people who make up the fabric of daily life; teachers and farmers, healthcare workers and first responders, artists and tech leaders, children and seniors, those thriving and those barely hanging on.

Prayers for the values we claim to hold but struggle to embody: courage and justice, humility and hope, sacrifice and hospitality. Prayers for our national symbols and institutions, not with blind reverence but with honest reckoning. Prayers themed around the natural wonders that humble us, the parks and monuments that mark our history, the wilderness that reminds us we’re not in control.

And prayers for spiritual renewal; because if America needs anything, it’s awakening. Not the manufactured kind that generates headlines and merchandise, but the costly kind that begins with tears before triumph, with confession before celebration, with brokenness acknowledged before healing can begin.

The Veteran’s Courage, The Intercessor’s Call

On Veterans Day, we honor those who served. We recognize that their service wasn’t abstract—it was embodied, costly, often invisible to those who benefited most from it. They stood watch while others slept. They carried burdens we’ll never fully understand. They made choices that still echo in their bodies and dreams.

Intercession carries its own parallels to military service, though the comparison risks overreach. The intercessor doesn’t face bullets or endure the trauma of combat. But there is a standing watch, a carrying of burdens, a choice to bear in prayer what others won’t acknowledge in conversation.

The intercessor sees the nation’s wounds—the divisions, the injustices, the apathy, the weariness—and refuses to look away. Instead, they bring those wounds to God, not with easy answers or partisan solutions, but with the kind of persistent pleading that believes God can do what politics cannot: transform hearts, heal divisions, revive what’s dying, restore what’s been lost.

This isn’t comfortable work. It’s not the kind of prayer that fits neatly on a bumper sticker or resolves in three minutes before a meal. It’s the prayer that wrestles through the night, that refuses to let go until blessing comes, that holds in tension God’s sovereignty and human agency, divine patience and prophetic urgency.

Why Now? Why This?

America’s 250th birthday isn’t just a milestone—it’s a mirror. It forces us to look at where we’ve been and where we’re going, what we’ve become and what we’ve lost, what we celebrate and what we must confess.

We stand at a peculiar moment: deeply divided yet desperately longing for unity, technologically connected yet relationally isolated, informationally saturated yet spiritually starved. We have more access to knowledge than any generation in history, yet we seem less capable of wisdom. We have platforms to broadcast our voices, yet we’ve forgotten how to listen.

Into this moment, I offer prayers. Not as solutions (prayer isn’t policy) but as reorientation. These 250 prayers invite us to see our states, our communities, our callings through a different lens: not the lens of political affiliation or cultural warfare, but the lens of intercession. What if we spent as much energy praying for our opponents as we do arguing with them? What if we brought our national anxieties to God with the same intensity we bring them to social media? What if patriotism looked more like intercession and less like insistence?

The Gift That Keeps Giving

I’ve been told this is “the perfect gift for the holiday season.” That feels both true and inadequate. Yes, it’s timed for Christmas shopping, for stockings and gift exchanges, for New Year’s resolutions, and for the family and small group gatherings where we search for something meaningful to share. Yes, it includes a complete 2026 reading plan that places each prayer on significant dates throughout America’s Semiquincentennial year.

But the real gift isn’t in the timing—it’s in the return. These prayers don’t expire on December 31, 2026. Long after the anniversary celebrations fade, you’ll find yourself reaching for this book when your state faces crisis, when your community needs hope, when national events leave you speechless, when your own prayers run dry.

That’s what I’ve discovered in creating these prayers: they’ve become the words I need when my own words fail. The prayer for my state that I return to during natural disasters. The prayer for healthcare workers that steadies me when the system feels broken. The prayer for revival that I pray when the church looks more like a social club than a sent-out army. The prayer for the next generation when I look at my own child and wonder what nation she’s inheriting.

An Invitation to Join

So today, on Veterans Day 2025, as we honor those who served with courage, I’m extending an invitation to serve with prayer. Not instead of action—prayer and action aren’t opposites—but as the foundation beneath action, the sustaining force within it, the power that transforms it from human striving into divine partnership. Here is the prayer marking Veterans Day:

Prayers from Sea to Shining Sea is available today. It’s a book, yes; paper and ink, covers and spine. But it’s also an invitation: to see your nation through the lens of intercession, to love your country enough to pray honestly over it, to believe that the most patriotic thing we can do might be the thing we do on our knees.

From sea to shining sea, these prayers rise.

Will you join them?

Prayers from Sea to Shining Sea: Marking America’s 250th Birthday with Prayers for Her People, Land, and Future is available now in hardcover, paperback, and ebook. It includes all 250 prayers plus a complete 2026 reading plan placing each prayer on meaningful dates throughout America’s Semiquincentennial year.

For more information or to order, click here.

To all who have served: thank you. Your courage inspires ours.

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For centuries, God’s people have sung their faith. From the temple courts of ancient Israel to the cathedrals of Europe to modern worship spaces around the globe, the connection between faith and song is as essential as breath and prayer. But not all worship music serves the same purpose. Some songs tell a testimony. Others declare doctrine. Some offer collective praise, while others cry out in deeply personal lament.

At the heart of this spectrum lies a tradition often forgotten in the age of projection screens and playlists: the singable Psalm. These were not written for popularity, but for spiritual formation.

Let’s explore this legacy—and how The Jacked Up Life Hymnbook fits into it.

A Brief History of Singable Psalms

Long before Isaac Watts or Fanny Crosby penned hymns, there were the Psalms. The Book of Psalms is often referred to as the hymnbook of ancient Israel. With 150 entries, it captures the full range of human experience in conversation with God: joy and sorrow, faith and doubt, justice and mercy, praise and repentance. These were written as lyrics. Many were sung aloud by individuals or entire congregations, often accompanied by instruments.

When the early Church emerged, believers continued singing the Psalms—many even memorizing all 150 to be recited at different hours of the day. During the Reformation, movements like the Calvinists emphasized Psalm singing over composed hymns to ensure congregational music was strictly Scripture.

Yet, as Christian theology and literacy spread, so did the appetite for hymns—songs that taught theology, told stories, and expressed lived faith in poetic form.

Hymns vs. Psalms vs. Praise Songs

Here’s a simplified breakdown:

In many churches today, modern worship leans heavily on the last row—songs that are emotive, experiential, and chorus-driven. These are powerful tools of devotion, but sometimes, they can leave little room for songs that hold tension, tell stories, or walk with people through messy spiritual realities.

That’s where hymnody—and particularly the genre of “personal psalmody”—still plays a vital role.

The Jacked Up Life Hymnbook: A New Old Kind of Worship

While The Jacked Up Life Soundtrack (released last month) was crafted with broader ears in mind—radio-ready in tone and production, leaning into pop and country with lyrics that dip their toes into themes of faith and struggle—The Jacked Up Life Hymnbook takes a more intentional turn toward devotion. These hymns are constructed not just for listening, but for singing. Whether in personal quiet times, small groups, or even congregational settings, their structure and lyrical theology echo a long-standing tradition of singable truth. Where the Soundtrack gives voice to spiritual wrestling through the lens of story and emotion, the Hymnbook gives shape to worshipful response, drawing straight lines between brokenness and redemption, confession and praise.

Both the Soundtrack and the Hymnbook are rooted in the themes of my book, The Jacked Up Life. Each chapter of that book exposes a reality we often hide behind Sunday smiles: broken foundations, spiritual pride, shame spirals, fractured families, disillusionment with church, and more.

But here’s the thing: Scripture is full of people singing from the wreckage. David didn’t wait to be fixed before he sang. Neither should we.

These hymns don’t pretend we have it all together. But they also don’t wallow in despair. Like the Psalms, they move from honesty to hope. From rawness to restoration. From cracks to rebuilding.

A Few Highlights:

• “From Cracks You Build” (Chapter 1) echoes the psalmist’s confession in Psalm 51, laying bare a heart that’s finally done pretending, and ready for true restoration. Musically, it’s probably the least “hymn-y” song on the album.

• “When I Descend in Shame” (Chapter 2) is a modern psalm of lament and redemption, acknowledging sin while lifting eyes to the Cross.

• “Bless the Mess That Mercy Mends” (Chapter 9) echoes the realism of Psalm 40, where God pulls us from the pit but doesn’t expect polish first.

• “Make This Church Your Home” (Chapter 6) speaks as both a prayer for reform and a confession of failure—very much in the tradition of community psalms of repentance like Psalm 85.

• “You Lift the Lowly” (Chapter 10) captures the upward arc of the gospel; the kind Mary sang in her Magnificat.

• “One Jacked Up Christmas” (Bonus track) is another slight departure from a typical hymn to aim at the bullseye of a gospel-centric Christmas carol.

These are personal hymns, but they are also meant to be shared—just as David’s deeply individual psalms became the songbook of a nation.

Why This Matters

In a time when many Christians are longing for depth in worship (depth of theology, of honesty, of spiritual encounter) there’s a place for modern hymnody that blends:

• the confessional heart of the Psalms

• the rich doctrine of historic hymns

• the emotional connection of modern worship

That’s what this hymnbook aims to offer.

That’s also why I taught myself how to write hymns that lean into the tradition of combining doctrine and devotion with melodic accessibility. By using diatonic I–IV–V–vi harmony progressions in most all of the songs, I tried to create a foundation of harmony that supports both personal meditation and group singing. It’s also why many of my melodies will feel familiar even when the lyrics are deeply original, because the structure gives them theological and musical grounding.

Sing, Read, or Reflect

Whether you’re a worship leader looking for fresh material, a songwriter exploring new forms, or a believer just wanting music that meets you where you are—The Jacked Up Life Hymnbook is for you.

You don’t have to have perfect pitch. You don’t even have to sing aloud.

But if your soul has ever said, “God, I’m a mess. But I believe You can work with this,” then I hope these songs find a home in your heart.

Listen and explore the hymns here → The Jacked Up Life Hymnbook

Buy the book that inspired the songs → Amazon

Let’s recover the power of singing theology; honest, hopeful, beautifully broken theology.

Let’s raise our voices not from places of arrival, but because He came down.

Let’s write (and sing!) new personal psalms for a jacked up world.

I would love to know which of the eleven tracks is your first favorite (because our album favorites change as we listen more and more.) Leave a comment to let me know and share these songs with your favorite worship leader!

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If you just watched the above clip from Pastor John Piper, you now know the moment that started this whole thing. The way he talked about inanimate matter giving voice to God’s glory hit me like a thunderclap. I couldn’t shake it.

It raised a question in me that he did not ask: what happens when the “rocks” of our age aren’t granite or marble, but silicon—the same stuff that makes our screens light up and our voices echo through algorithms? What happens when the digital world starts to speak louder than the people living in it?

That question turned into my new book, The Silicon Will Cry Out: What AI Reveals About Us, God, and the Future of Faith which is available now on Amazon.

This isn’t your typical “technology is bad” rant. I’m not tossing smartphones into the Sea of Galilee here. It’s more like standing knee-deep in the water, looking down at my reflection on the screen, and realizing the reflection may soon look back (if not already.) The book dives into how faith, identity, and creation itself are responding to the rise of artificial everything—intelligence, emotion, even imitation worship.

And here’s the thing: the more we hand our voices to machines, the more the created world starts reminding us who really deserves to be heard. Scripture says if people stay silent, the stones will cry out. I think the stones are booting up.

If The Jacked Up Life was about rebuilding the human heart, The Silicon Will Cry Out is about rebuilding the wiring—our relationship with creation, with tech, and with the God who still speaks louder than any device we’ve ever made.

I’d love for you to check it out, share it, and let me know what part hits you hardest.

Grab your copy of The Silicon Will Cry Out on Amazon.
Then drop a comment or reply—what’s the loudest “voice” of technology in your own life right now?

Let’s keep this conversation human while we still can.

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This morning’s post picture is of the Santorini gondola lift—the one that hauls tired tourists from the Old Port up to the whitewashed cliffs of Fira. But I didn’t wait in the long line to board it. Four cruise ships had just docked, and I wasn’t in the mood for a line of sweaty sunburns and selfie sticks. So I climbed the 600 broad steps carved into the cliffside—steps traditionally traveled by donkeys ferrying travelers uphill. Except this time, I was the donkey. Carrying my own baggage. Step by step. One labored breath after another.

And yet, as I climbed, I thought of how often in life we’re waiting on a lift when God is saying, “Nope—it’s time to climb.” Restoration and transition aren’t always easy, and they’re rarely convenient. But sometimes we need to hit bottom so we finally start looking up.

“This Is My Lift” is the final track on The Jacked Up Life Soundtrack, and it was written as an anthem of surrender and rebuilding. There’s a familiar sound to it—somewhere between hopeful pop and stripped-down worship—but it wasn’t written from a mountaintop moment. It came from a valley. From questioning what was next after stepping away from my last pastorate—wounded, tired, but still loving the people and the place I left behind. I thought it would be foolish to apply for ministry roles while still healing. So I’ve waited. Wrestled. Written. Rested. Grieved. And now, six months later, I’m choosing to trust the One who lifts the lowly. Not perfectly. Not without fear. But step by step.

If you’ve ever been there—wondering what’s next, unsure of your value, exhausted from the climb—this one’s for you. You’re not jacked up because God forgot you. You might be jacked up so He can lift you in a way that brings you even closer to Him and more healing to you than you could ever lift on your own.

So here we are at the end of this musical journey—but not the end of your journey. Or mine.

Thanks for walking through The Jacked Up Life with me—book by book, beat by beat. If it’s moved you, encouraged you, or just made you feel a little less alone, I’d be honored if you streamed a song, bought a book, or shared the project with a friend.

And while I’m beyond thankful for God lifting my spirits, thank you for the opportunity to lift yours.

—Michael

Stream the soundtrack: Spotify | Apple Music
Read the book: The Jacked Up Life – Amazon
Share the lift. Tag someone who needs encouragement today.

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Yesterday, while walking the harbor in Mykonos, Greece, I passed an ancient windmill in the middle of being restored. Perched above the Aegean, its wooden arms were weathered, scaffolding surrounded the turret, and yet—there was beauty in its unfinished state. I snapped a photo because it felt familiar. The tension of broken and beautiful. Useful and incomplete. Just like us. An image can teach you so much sometimes and it became the perfect cover for today’s song.

Speaking of teaching, they say you never forget the teachers who saw something in you. For me, that was Señor Kinkel—my Spanish teacher in high school in Oregon. He didn’t just tolerate my talkative nature; he directed it. Encouraged it. Challenged me to use my love for wordplay in a new language. And decades later, that seed of encouragement grew into a verse in Spanish in a song I wrote partially in his honor—“Dios ve tu corazón,” which means God sees your heart. Señor Kinkel tragically passed away years ago, but his legacy lives on in the way I view language, music, and even messes.

Even though I’m the grandson of Italian immigrants on one side and our founding fathers on the other, I still resonate with the messiness of both restoration and tangled family trees and thought the insertion of Spanish (rather than Italian) would be emblematic of such a blessed, beautiful mess.

“God Bless This Mess” is the most personal and quietly poetic track on The Jacked Up Life Soundtrack—a return to an acoustic, singer-songwriter sound that would feel just as at home at Nashville’s Bluebird Café as it would around a campfire in the Oregon woods. That’s no accident. After 20 years in Music City and roots that reach back to small-town high school memories, this song feels like the meeting place of both chapters—distant and recent past.

A Soundtrack for the Sacred Mess

We live in a world addicted to filters—digital and emotional. We airbrush our struggles, smooth out our jagged edges, and paste on confidence when we’re falling apart. But real life—the kind that transformation is made of—is anything but tidy.

That’s the heartbeat of “God Bless This Mess.” Whether you’re knee-deep in family or church drama, dealing with grief or burnout, or simply tired of pretending everything’s fine—this song offers something we all need: permission to not rush the work.

Because healing?
It’s slow.
Grace?
It’s messy.
Restoration?
It’s not found in the pristine, it’s formed in the process.

As the lyric says:

“Oh, this is the sacred messy work of grace
Bruises and blessings all tangled in this place
Don’t rush the work—there’s mercy in the mess
God bless this mess…”

There’s something profoundly spiritual about muddy footprints in a hallway, morning coffee in the middle of grief, and whispered prayers in half-clean kitchens. Those are the altars of our ordinary, jacked-up lives. And that’s where God meets us—not once we’ve cleaned it all up, but right in the middle of the mess.

The Bilingual Bridge

The Spanish verse wasn’t just a nod to Señor Kinkel. It was also a creative decision to give voice to the wide range of homes and hearts this song might land in. Whether English or Spanish is your first language, the truth remains:

“Mamá dice, ‘Dios ve tu corazón’
Lágrimas caen, pero hay paz en Su voz…”

Translation:

“Mama says, ‘God sees your heart’
Tears fall, but there is peace in His voice…”

It’s not a perfect home.
It’s not a clean story.
But it’s real.
And grace works best with real.

Living Chapter 9

In The Jacked Up Life book, Chapter 9 deals with living in the mess of restoration—how even when you’re jacking up your life in the best way, there are still uneven moments. Just because the old foundation has been cleared doesn’t mean the new one is dry. There’s instability, vulnerability, doubt, and a lot of emotional messiness. This song doesn’t rush you past that stage. It sits with you in it. And reminds you—you’re not alone.

Restoration is spiritual construction.
So let the mess be sacred.
Let the prayers be half-finished.
Let the tears and the to-do lists and the Taco Tuesdays all exist in the same grace-filled breath.

Because if God doesn’t bless our mess, then what’s the point?

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So Here’s the Prayer

To every tired soul…
To the single parent, the estranged sibling, the lonely spouse, the recovering addict, the anxious achiever, the failing perfectionist, the worn-out elder—
May you find grace enough to not rush the work.
May you give yourself time and space to be rebuilt.
And may the God of mercy meet you not in your polished moments—but in the honest ones.

God bless this mess.

—Michael

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A few days ago, I sat where the Apostle Paul once stood—on the rocky outcrop of Mars Hill in Athens, with the Acropolis towering behind me and the city sprawling below. Tourists buzzed around, selfie sticks raised high, but in my spirit I could feel the gravity of what happened there. Paul, surrounded by philosophers, skeptics, idol worshipers, and the intellectual elite, didn’t yell. He didn’t cower either. He reasoned. He pointed to truth. And he started with what they did know before introducing them to what they didn’t—the unknown God, made known in Christ.

Truth and grace. Boldness and humility. It struck me how rare that combination is today.

That’s one moment that echoed in my mind when I wrote this song and this chapter. Because these days, you don’t need to stand on a hill in Athens to feel like the ground under your feet is shifting. Some Sunday mornings I’d walk through the church parking lot and see a lifted pickup with a flag decal parked next to a hybrid with a coexist bumper sticker. Inside the sanctuary, their owners sang the same songs, took the same Communion, prayed to the same Jesus, and probably didn’t say a word to each other.

Welcome to church in a jacked up world.

This is the tension I tried to capture in Track 8: Where Do I Stand — a bold, anthem-like cry born from two decades of navigating ministry and friendship in the middle of division, distrust, and digital noise. The musical arrangement swells with urgent energy and defiant hope. Thunderous percussion pulses under layered vocals and chant-style hooks, like a battle cry not against others, but against the soul-numbing temptation to just give up or pick a side and pretend that’s the answer.

“In a world gone jacked, where do I stand?
Truth turned sideways, lines in the sand…”

We live in an algorithm-fed society that rewards outrage, exaggeration, and tribalism. It teaches us to assume the worst about people who disagree with us. Social feeds suggest “enemies,” and over time, we begin to believe the lies: You have to choose a side. You have to be loud to be heard. You can’t love people who think differently.

But then I wrote something that cuts through the chaos:

“Did we forget the Savior’s love for both friend and enemy?
I read it in red. It’s hard, but the truth cuts deep…”

The call of Jesus isn’t to silence or softness. It’s to speak the truth in love. That’s not a compromise. That’s a collision course. And it’s not a comfortable one.

The chapter this song is based on — “Living in a Jacked Up World” — was one of the hardest to write. It wasn’t about pointing fingers. It was about grappling with my own biases, my own comfort zones, and my own failure to listen as well as I speak. Pastoring has shown me that people are desperate for clarity and compassion, but most churches only know how to do one or the other.

Grace with no truth isn’t grace. It’s permission to self-destruct.
Truth without grace isn’t truth. It’s weaponized morality.

“All this noise, still I hear the Shepherd’s voice
Telling me grace beats rage, and love is a choice…”

That line, for me, was the spine of this song. It’s the Shepherd’s voice I want to keep hearing when the shouting gets loud and the lines get blurry. It’s the reminder that love is not passive. It’s not code for tolerance or retreat. It’s a fierce decision to reflect Jesus in a world that’s forgotten what He looks like.

And it’s that tension, standing in the messy middle, that this track captures.

“So I won’t hide just to keep from the fight
I’ll speak the truth in dusk and daylight…”

This is a song to shout in your car.
A song for pastors afraid of preaching the hard stuff.
For believers who are tired of performing for one political aisle or the other.
For anyone wondering if there’s still a place to stand when everything seems sideways.

There is.
It’s not on the left. It’s not on the right.
It’s not throwing rocks.
It’s on the Rock.

“No stone in my hand, I got the Son in my eyes…”

So where do I stand?

Right there.
With mercy in my hands, conviction in my gut, and Jesus in my line of sight.

Let’s not pick a side.
Let’s follow the Shepherd — full of grace and truth.
Let’s remember there’s a better Kingdom than the one we’re arguing about.
And let’s hold the line with love.

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Stay tuned. The next track closes the soundtrack and the book. It brings us not to the end of our jacked up journey, but to the beginning of something rebuilt, real, and redeemed.

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They say country music is three chords and the truth.
But if you’ve ever worked an underappreciated job with dirt under your nails or burnout behind your eyes, you know that truth goes deeper than a steel guitar and a clever turn of phrase.

I lived in Nashville for 20 years. And while the skyline changed and the honkytonks got shinier, one thing stayed the same: the stories in country music still know how to make you laugh, cry, and think; sometimes all in the same chorus.

That spirit lives in Track #7: Time and a Half. It’s a sonic departure from the more contemporary Christian and pop sounds of the rest of The Jacked Up Life Soundtrack. From the opening slide guitar to the boots-on-concrete rhythm section, this song sounds like it belongs right into the neon glow of downtown Lower Broadway. Yet the lyrics represent Mondays in every day, anytown life. And that’s exactly where it needs to be.

“Five AM, boots hit the ground, no halo in this hard hat town
Coffee brews and the day starts slow
Steel toes waiting for payroll…”

Chapter 7 of The Jacked Up Life explores the complicated relationship we have with work; not just jobs, but vocations, expectations, hustle culture, and the quiet ache for something meaningful. Whether you’re a barista or a business analyst, a roofer or a retired teacher, chances are you’ve asked: Does what I do matter to God?

And this track answers with a grin and a gospel hook:

“Nine to five and barely alive—where’s the mission in this?
There’s a gospel in the grind, and a Savior on the shift…”

There’s a lot of theology in country music if you’re listening closely. And while this song has fun with wordplay (including my personal favorite lyrical hook of the whole album: “When it comes to grace, I get time and a half”), the message is rooted in something deeply biblical:

Work is worship.
Even when it’s weary.
Even when your boss doesn’t see your effort.
Even when you’re punching a time clock and wondering if your faith has anything to do with spreadsheets or scaffolding.

This track is for the UPS drivers and line cooks, the overworked teachers and underpaid artists, the stay-at-home parents and shift workers on their third cup of coffee before 7 a.m.

It’s for everyone who’s ever asked, “Is there a point to all this?”
And it answers, Yes.
There’s a Savior on your shift.

If you’ve read The Jacked Up Life, you know that I don’t believe in clean-cut, easy answers. But I do believe that the Kingdom of God shows up in break rooms, boardrooms, and barns.

And when we offer our ordinary days to Him, our timecards, spreadsheets, invoices, and inventory, He shows up. Sometimes subtly, sometimes miraculously. But always faithfully.

“We give our work to the Father’s plans,
He builds through laptops and calloused hands…”

So whether you’re on your feet or at your desk, stuck in traffic or stuck in another Zoom call, know this:

Your work matters.
Your weariness matters.
And grace?
Grace is generous enough to pay overtime.

Listen on Apple Music
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My wife Hayley shakes her head whenever she hears this track; she says it sounds the most “radio-ready” on the album and asks, “why didn’t you start doing this sooner?” It would mean a lot to me if you would share the song (or this post) with someone you think it might resonate with; sharing is a way of supporting what I do. Thank you!

Next up: Track #8 “Where Do I Stand” pulls us off the job site to look at Chapter 8 and the bigger question of “how do we live in a jacked up world?”

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Talk about a jacked up church in Mykonos, Greece! There’s nothing but rubble around and behind this historic door, yet its red door is still an important symbol even if this former church is nothing more than a photo op…

There’s a church tradition you may or may not know; the red door.

In centuries past, a red church door signaled sanctuary. Refuge. If you were fleeing violence or shame or danger, you could run to that door, and no one could harm you beyond it. Blood had already been spilled for you. You were safe.

Today, many red church doors remain. But the sense of sanctuary has faded. For some, church is still a place of safety, grace, and healing. But for others, far too many, it’s a place where masks are required, appearances are managed, and wounds are quietly dressed beneath layers of theology and tradition.

That tension inspired both Chapter 6 of The Jacked Up Life and an entire follow-up book, The Jacked Up Church. It dives deeper into the fractures that often go unacknowledged in our church communities. You can find that book here if you’re walking through church hurt, disillusionment, or simply asking, “Is this what it’s supposed to be?”

But today, I want to focus on Track #6: Sunday Best. It’s a piano-driven ballad that begins as a whisper and rises into a raw, honest plea.

This is the kind of song that writes itself in the church parking lot.

“You’re waiting by the old red door
Shaking hands, hugging every neck
It’s Sunday morning, but my heart’s worn thin
Smile painted, hiding what’s left unsaid…”

How many of us have walked through those doors with a storm brewing inside, only to be greeted with a “Good morning!” and a handshake that assumes everything’s fine?

We sing the songs. We recite the lines. We press the shirts, iron the skirts, scrub the sneakers. But the stains remain. Stains from Saturday night regret. Stains from midweek depression. Stains from the memory of being hurt by the very people who once prayed over us.

And we wonder if grace still has a seat for us.

The song’s chorus lays bare the struggle:

“I wore my Sunday smile over my Saturday shame
Pressed my Sunday best, but the stains remain
Can I trade my Sunday best for some Sunday real?
Take off the masks, we’re all needing to heal…”

This isn’t a call to abandon reverence or beauty in worship. It’s a cry for authenticity. For mercy over metrics. For compassion over choreography. For churches that prioritize the hurting over the polished.

It’s a confession. And a wish. A prayer that church might feel like the old red door again.

I’ve stood behind pulpits. I’ve sat in back rows. I’ve served in staff meetings and slipped out early. I’ve been prayed over, praised, gaslit, dismissed, and confused by church people more times than I can count. Maybe you have too.

But somewhere underneath the mess, I still believe the Church, capital “C,” can be something better. That it is something better when it remembers who it is: the Body of Christ, not the brand of Christ.

That’s why the outro of Sunday Best lingers:

“Let church be the place where it’s safe to be...real.”

Because if church isn’t a safe place to take off the mask, where is?

So here’s my prayer as this song plays, and as the red door behind me in this photo reminds me:

May we rebuild churches that are less about being a safe academy for our families and “put together” and more about being poured out to help people be put back together on the foundation of grace we all need to build upon.
May we be quick to listen, slow to judge, and always ready to offer that grace.
And may your Sunday, whatever shape it takes, be more real than rehearsed, more authentic than imitated.

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Sunday Best, to me, is maybe the most important track on the album; it would mean a lot to me if you would share it (or this post) with someone you think it might resonate with; sharing is a way of supporting what I do. Thank you!

Next up: Track #7 hits the Country genre hard, has one of my favorite title hooks, and opens the floodgates on striving and the struggle of seeing God’s purpose and mission in working a 9 to 5 grind (or worse) in Chapter 7, “The Jacked Up Workplace.”

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There’s something oddly sacred about a family photo.

Smiles locked in a frame, frozen in time. And yet, behind every perfectly captured moment is an invisible story—of words not said, tensions unresolved, love expressed imperfectly, and grace shown in the most ordinary, unremarkable ways.

Pixels and Grace picks up sonically where Pour It New left off. Acoustic guitar, gentle piano, and a raw simplicity let the lyrics breathe. But the voice shifts. Now a warm, vulnerable female vocal carries the weight of this track, giving voice to sons, daughters, parents, or siblings who’ve felt the quiet ache of family not quite working the way they hoped… and choosing to stay anyway.

Whether your story comes from a family of faith, fracturedness, adoption, absence, or awkwardness, you’ll find yourself somewhere in this song. The chorus confesses the truth so many of us need to hear:

“We’re not a perfect picture, but we’re pieces of a plan / Stitched together by pixels and grace…”

That’s the heartbeat of The Jacked Up Life‘s fifth chapter. It’s an honest reckoning with the messiness of family life, while also recognizing that God does some of His most beautiful work not despite our brokenness, but right in the middle of it.

The lyrics don’t shy away from real-life tension:

• Debates in the kitchen.

• Silence in the car.

• The desire to curate a cleaner version of our lives for others.

• The quiet hope that love can outlast the wear and tear.

And yet, the bridge is what holds it all together:

“So we open up the curtains, let the daylight in / Carry every burden, loving as we can…”

That’s the heart of Pixels and Grace. It’s not that we’ve got it all figured out, but that we’re still showing up, still loving, still letting the light in.

Listen on Apple Music
Listen on Spotify

As you listen to this track, let it remind you that you’re not alone in your jacked up family. And maybe—just maybe—God isn’t looking for perfect portraits. He’s building mosaics of grace, one pixel at a time.

Next up, a song that covers Chapter 6, The Jacked Up Church…

-Michael

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There’s a moment in every rebuild when the old is finally gone. Not covered. Not camouflaged. Not cleverly reworked. Gone.

And in that space, before the new is poured, something sacred happens.

“Pour It New” is the quietest track so far in the soundtrack, but maybe the most soul-shaking. With its gentle acoustic guitar, open piano chords, and vocals that ache just enough, this song sonically inhabits the tender moment when demolition turns to dedication. It’s not a song of arrival. It’s a song of release. A song that exhales.

The chapter of the book that pairs with it, “Pouring a New Foundation,” invites us to pause in the emptiness after we’ve torn out what was false. This isn’t a “fixer-upper” faith. It’s a faith that starts fresh; down to the dirt.

That’s what this track captures with surprising intimacy. There’s literal concrete imagery woven throughout the verses, but it’s not just about slab and steel. It’s about that internal construction site where we stop patching over pain and let grace start to build from the ground up.

“Steel set deep where the lies once lived / Grace is thicker than the shame I wore.”

That’s not just poetry. That’s process. That’s soul renovation.

Musically, the track allows space to linger. It doesn’t rush the listener. It lets the “pour” happen slow. You can hear the emptiness before the footing is set. You can feel the story settle deep in the mix; like something anchoring underneath your own chest.

The chorus hits like a whispered declaration:

Don’t patch the pain—pour it new,
Tear out the cracks I held onto.

It’s the heartbeat of the whole rebuild. And for many of us, it’s the prayer we didn’t know we needed.

Because here’s the truth:
Sometimes we cling to the cracks.
We try to preserve the past; plans we drew up, timelines we clung to, even trauma we wrapped into identity.
But love won’t build on lies.
Grace won’t pour over pride.

So God clears the space.

He takes our old blueprints from our hands. He rains mercy where we thought control would win. And in that moment, when our ground is level again, He invites us to something new.

Lay it all down, take it slow—
Hands of mercy shaping what will grow.

If you’ve been through something that tore your life down past studs to soil, this one’s for you.

Listen on Apple Music
Listen on Spotify

Let it play while you walk.
Let it echo while you rest.
Let it remind you: You are not abandoned. You are being found.

And the new foundation?
It’s not built on what you do.
It’s built on who He is.
Grace is the concrete.
Truth is the level.
And love sets you steady on your feet.

He’s poured it new.

Let’s keep building,
Michael

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By now, you’ve probably figured out this isn’t your average Christian pop album.

If Track #1: The Cracks Beneath pulled the curtain back on hidden struggles, and Track #2: Spiral Down Again gave voice to the desperate internal fight many of us face but rarely name, then Track #3: Jacked Up Life is the turning point. It’s that sacred moment when self-awareness collides with holy grit. It’s the musical demo day. The start of a new build on a new foundation.

The chapter in the book that pairs with this song is appropriately called “Jacking Up Your Life”, and just like in home renovation, this isn’t about cosmetic touch-ups. It’s about lifting the whole structure, confronting the crumbling foundation beneath, and letting God clear out what can’t stay if we want something solid to remain.

The sound of this track is brighter and bolder than the one before it. It has a steady, confident rhythm built on acoustic strums, warm textures, and melodies that feel both grounded and hopeful. A pinch of pop and a dash of country, there’s a touch of sweetness, but the energy drives forward. This is the song you play when you’re finally ready to roll up your sleeves and get serious about healing. It doesn’t rush, but it doesn’t flinch either. It’s the soundtrack of someone choosing change instead of circling regret.

Where the first two tracks were full of questions and confessions, this one moves forward. Fewer doubts. More decisions. Less hiding. More building.

The chorus belts,

Jacked up life, jacked up dreams
Nothing’s quite the way it seems
Time to jack up what’s below
Tear it down and let it go
Pour a new foundation here
Built on grace instead of fear
Jacked up life can start again
When you build on Him

That last refrain from the chorus is a key in both the book and this song:

Jacked up life can start again / When you build on Him.

That’s not a throwaway lyric or a poetic way to end a verse. That’s the core of the whole book, and maybe your story too.

Maybe you’re standing in the ruins of something you once hoped would last. Maybe you’re just now realizing your foundation was built more on fear, shame, or performance than grace. Maybe you’ve finally realized you can’t patch up what was never solid to begin with.

If so, then this is your soundtrack moment.

Blast it in the car. Sing it while you cry or clean or walk the dog or walk away from something that needs leaving. But whatever you do, don’t miss the invitation. It’s time to jack it up.

Tear out what can’t hold you.
Pour a new foundation.
Build on grace, not fear.
Start again. Not alone, but with the One who knows every crack and loves you still.

Listen on Apple Music
Listen on Spotify

More songs, and soul renovation, to come.

Let’s keep building.
Michael

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If the opening track of The Jacked Up Life Soundtrack was about exposing the cracks, then Track 2 takes us into the space beneath them; a place many of us know but few of us name. It’s darker. More desperate. But it’s also holy ground, because it’s where our cries echo the loudest and, sometimes, where God’s whisper finally cuts through.

“Spiral Down Again” is the soundtrack companion to Chapter 2: “The Shame Spiral” of my book, The Jacked Up Life. It’s not about a stumble. It’s about that sickening, all-too-familiar feeling of slipping back into something you swore you were done with; of falling inward while smiling outward.

Sonically: Vulnerable. Fierce. Haunting.

This track is a notable tonal shift from Track 1’s light, introspective pop. The production here leans into atmospheric electronic-pop with minimalist arrangements; tight, echoing drum patterns, a deep driving bass, and synth hooks that feel like a heartbeat you can’t calm down.

Vocals are whispered more than sung, but with an intensity that feels like standing in a room alone, yelling at God without raising your voice.

You might think this track sounds like something made for a teenager’s journal, but let’s be honest; the shame spiral isn’t a phase. It ages with us. It adapts. And it still whispers the same lie: “You’ll never change.”

Chapter Two in Song Form

In Chapter 2, we dive into how shame doesn’t just visit; it vortexes. One small moment can trigger a chain reaction, pulling us into a private hell of silence, doubt, and self-condemnation. We start hiding again. We stop reaching out. We replay the same tape on loop.

The lyrics mirror this mental and spiritual claustrophobia:

“Telling lies to myself. Breathing in doubt…”
“One word turns to chains, spiral down again.”

But what gives this track its weight isn’t just the despair—it’s the way it still dares to cry out:

“Is there any grace left now?”

The psalmists asked similar questions; not because they didn’t believe God was good, but because they couldn’t feel it in the spiral. That’s what makes this track honest. Biblical. Human.

The Declaration: Crying Out Matters

And then comes the most important line—not shouted, but declared:

“Don’t wanna spiral down again.”

It’s not a resolution made with false bravado. It’s the groan of someone who’s tired of pretending. Someone who wants healing more than saving face. And maybe, just maybe, is finally ready to reach for the hand that’s always been extended.

This track doesn’t tie it all up. It’s not supposed to. But it does something sacred: it gives voice to what most of us are too ashamed to say out loud.

Stream the Song

🎵 Listen to “Spiral Down Again” on Apple Music
🎵 Stream on Spotify

In the next post, I’ll take you into Track #3; a song that wrestles with spiritual performance and our attempts to earn what we already have in grace.

Until then, if you’re stuck in the spiral, let this be your quiet confession: “Say my name, say my name, Jesus…”

You’re not alone in the silence.

—Michael

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“The floor looked fine… until I tried to stand.”

If you’ve read Chapter One of The Jacked Up Life, you already know this whole thing starts in a quiet kind of chaos; not with an explosion, but with a slow creak underfoot. A feeling that something’s not quite right beneath you, even if everyone else sees a solid surface.

The first track on The Jacked Up Life Soundtrack, “The Cracks Beneath,” is a direct mirror of that first chapter. It’s the sound of realizing your foundation might not be as sturdy as you hoped. It’s also the beginning of honesty.

Sound Inspiration: Preteen Pop with a Purpose

When I was writing this melody, I kept thinking about what was playing in the background during my daughter’s early preteen years—around 10 or 12 years ago. There was this window of light, melodic pop that felt fresh and emotionally accessible. Not bubblegum. Not too brooding. Just introspective enough to feel real, but still hopeful.

I wanted this song to sit in that same sonic space—where raw feelings could be explored without being dragged down. Think early 2010s light indie-pop meets acoustic CCM, with a vulnerability that’s sung rather than shouted.

The vocal performance captures that well: clear and confessional, a voice that sounds like it’s halfway between whispering a prayer and journaling late at night. There’s nothing forced about it—which is the whole point.

Chapter One in Song Form

Chapter One of the book is titled “Cracks in the Foundation”—and it opens with that deceptively simple realization: we build so much of our identity on a floor we never stopped to inspect. We smile wide. We keep moving. But eventually, the pressure finds its way through.

The lyrics in The Cracks Beneath pull from that same emotional soil:

“Bare feet on the kitchen floor / Never noticed these cracks before…”
“Perfect on the outside, flawed underneath…”

It’s not just a metaphor. It’s how so many of us live.

This song is for the person who feels like they’re barely holding it together. For the one who’s terrified someone might see the imperfections they’ve worked so hard to hide. For the one who wonders: If they saw the real me… would they still believe in me?

The Turn: From Hiding to Being Known

Where the verses ask questions and the chorus wrestles with perception, it’s the bridge of this song where the real soul-turn happens:

All these little faults, God already knows
When I try to hide, I’m not alone
Can I tell myself, I’m loved through every weakness shown?

This is the whisper beneath the anthem. Not “Will others believe in me?” but—Can I believe that God loves me even when He sees the cracks? That He sees me even when I try to hide? And even more: Can I begin to believe the most profound love in the universe?

That last question is the heart of the whole album. If we never move beyond the fear of being found out, we never step into the freedom of being fully known.

This track sets the tone for the whole album. It doesn’t resolve everything (yet), but it does ask the question that every other song will build on: What if healing starts by acknowledging and showing what’s broken—and letting God rebuild from there?

Stream the Song

🎵 Listen to “The Cracks Beneath” on Apple Music
🎵 Stream on Spotify

In the next post, I’ll walk you through Track #2 - Spiral Down Again, and how it connects with Chapter Two: “The Shame Spiral”—but for now, I hope The Cracks Beneath meets you somewhere honest. Somewhere quiet.

Because that’s often where God begins.

More soon,
—Michael

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Well, this has been a long time coming.

After more than a dozen books, more than a dozen years of ministry, and more unfinished creative dreams than I can count, I finally did the thing I’ve wanted to do since long before anyone called me “Pastor” or “Author.” I made an album.

Today, I’m excited (and a little nervous) to officially announce that The Jacked Up Life Soundtrack is now available on Apple Music, Spotify, and other major streaming platforms.

It’s not a worship album in the typical sense. I don’t sing on it. I don’t play the instruments. But I did write the lyrics and the melodies—and poured more of my heart and theology and scars into these songs than anything I’ve ever published with a barcode.

This is music for people who know what it’s like to stand in a pile of emotional and spiritual rubble, staring at the cracked foundation of your life, wondering if God still builds anything out of this kind of mess. If that’s you—or ever has been—this album is for you.

A Soundtrack for the Imperfect Life

The Jacked Up Life Soundtrack is the musical companion to my book The Jacked Up Life, which tells the story of what happens when guilt, fear, and shame shake the foundation of your identity—and how God meets you in the middle of it, not after you’ve cleaned it all up.

Each song on this album mirrors a chapter of the book, but this is more than just a bonus feature or reading companion. These tracks carry their own emotional arc. They wrestle with regret, unravel perfectionism, and slowly piece together something like hope.

The sound ranges from reflective acoustic moments to anthemic pop and contemporary Christian textures. You’ll hear echoes of doubt, determination, grace, and gritty joy.

And no, you won’t hear my voice.

But that was intentional. One of my longtime creative inspirations has always been the late, great Quincy Jones—not just because of his talent, but because of the kind of artist he chose to be. Quincy released albums full of vocal brilliance, but he didn’t sing a single note. He saw himself as the thread pulling everything together—writing, arranging, shaping something bigger than his own voice. Now, I’m no Quincy Jones; not even close. But his recent passing reminded me of that model and gave me the freedom to finally pursue my dream of songwriting and producing music.

Why Now?

Honestly, the big thing that held me back was the lie that I was “too late” or “too old” or that it “wasn’t my lane.” But after the sudden disintegration of my last pastorate, and through the very process of writing my book The Jacked Up Life, I realized something:

God doesn’t wait for perfect timing or clean resumes. He builds with what’s jacked up—so the foundation can be grace, not perfection.

So I started writing. And tracking. And rewriting. And praying. And listening. And learning new tools that gave these melodies the life I’d only imagined. Now, it’s not just something I dreamed about. It’s something I can share with you.

What to Expect Next

Over the coming days, I’ll be posting right here on GodGuy.com about each track—what inspired it, what chapter it connects to, and how the lyrics emerged from some of the messiest and most meaningful moments of my life.

From the confessional country anthem “Time and a Half” to the vulnerable healing cry of “Pour It New,” these songs are meant to be sat with—not just sung to. So whether you’re listening while driving, walking, crying, or doubting, I hope these songs serve you.

Start Listening Now

If you’re ready to stream it right now, here are the links:

👉 Listen on Apple Music
👉 Stream on Spotify

(And if you like it, would you do me a favor and follow the artist page, add it to your library, and maybe share it with someone who needs to hear they’re not alone?)

One Last Thing

This album wasn’t made in a vacuum (it was actually my basement.) No, actually it was made in the quiet spaces between real-life responsibilities, pastoring people, wrestling with my own thoughts, and figuring out what faith looks like when it’s more about being honest than impressive.

So thank you for being here.

Thanks for reading the book, if you did. Thanks for sticking with me through the years. And if you’re just discovering my work for the first time, welcome to the jacked up journey. You’re in good company.

Because Jesus didn’t come for the polished.

He came for the jacked up to jack us up for something eternal.

And sometimes, grace sounds like a song.

Take a listen!
—Michael

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We’re visiting the Canary Islands today; our first land and port since leaving The Bahamas seven days ago in this 14-day Atlantic crossing. It’s our first visit here and, in doing some research, I discovered the atmospheric phenomenon they call la calima — a strange, hazy dust-laden air that can be found drifting in from the Sahara. It’s warm, oppressive, strange. Visibility quickly drops. Everything looks muted, dusty. Even familiar places seem foreign under that veil.

Here’s what la calima is, and then what it isn’t — and why it mirrors so powerfully one of the lessons in both The Jacked Up Life and The Jacked Up Church.

What La Calima Is

• La calima is wind coming from the Sahara that carries fine sand and dust particles over the Canary Islands. It happens when certain meteorological conditions align: strong southerly or southeasterly winds, dry hot air, and high pressure over North Africa. Source

• It reduces air quality and visibility. Streets, patios, cars, everything outdoors gets a thin layer of sand. Indoors, your eyes or throat might prick; outdoors, the sky changes color. Source

• It lasts for a few hours to several days — sometimes three to five days, depending on how strong the winds are and how deep the dust layer is. It eventually settles (or is blown away), and life goes back to its usual clarity. Source

What La Calima Isn’t

• It’s not a catastrophe by itself. It doesn’t destroy everything, even though it disturbs a lot.

• It doesn’t immediately paralyze life (though for sensitive people it can feel overwhelming).

• And once the skies clear, people resume their routines.

The Parallel: Hidden Haze in Church Culture

There’s a passage in The Jacked Up Church that goes something like:

“We can repaint walls but leave the foundation cracked. We can preach love but operate in fear. The church sometimes looks clear and bright, until the dust settles in.”

La calima is a good metaphor for that kind of spiritual and cultural haze. You don’t always see it first. You sense it: small irritations, hidden hurts, things that don’t quite feel right but you’ve grown used to them.

• Just like la calima, dysfunction in the church can drift in from unexpected places — not always from obvious sin or scandal, but from unresolved conflict, suppressed questions, unmet needs, or an unwillingness to change.

• It reduces clarity. The message seems muted. The preaching might still be happening, but it’s generic and forgettable. People don’t see every color in it — nuance, authenticity, honesty are blurred.

• The atmosphere becomes thick with dust: unspoken hurt, guilt, performance, only parts of the truth being spoken, masked expectations, resources misaligned.

When the Dust Settles on Your Life

But this isn’t just about churches. La calima also has a lot to say about the way we live our personal lives.

Sometimes the haze doesn’t come from outside voices but from the clutter inside our own heads and hearts.

• The dust of distraction. Endless scrolling, overwork, or running from one thing to the next without stopping to breathe.

• The dust of disappointment. Old regrets, past wounds, and missed opportunities that hang in the air like a fog, coloring how you see today.

• The dust of self-protection. Fear of vulnerability, hiding flaws, keeping the mask on so no one sees the real you.

Like calima, these aren’t always catastrophic storms. They don’t knock us down in one blow. They creep in quietly, coat everything lightly, and make the landscape of our lives feel muted, unclear, and heavy.

And just like the Islanders wait and clean after calima, we have to do the same:

• Close some windows of distraction.

• Sweep out the settled dust of old hurts.

• Wait in grace for clarity instead of forcing answers we don’t yet have.

Because here’s the truth: you can keep moving in the haze, but you won’t see straight. Clarity doesn’t come by pretending the air is clear; it comes by acknowledging the dust, doing the small work of cleaning, and holding steady until the winds shift.

What to Do When You Noticе the Dust

When la calima rolls in, what do Canary Islanders do?

• They close windows.

• They avoid strenuous exposure outdoors.

• They clean surfaces when it settles.

• They wait faithfully until the air clears.

Spiritually, we do something similar:

1. Name the Dust – Call out what is wrong. Maybe it’s not dramatic — maybe it’s a culture of politeness, or people feeling unseen. But acknowledging it is the first step.

2. Pull the Windows Shut – Establish boundaries. Maybe limit what external expectations you allow, reduce the performance pressures, protect times of rest and prayer.

3. Clean What’s Settled – Engage in confession, restoration, transparency. Do the work of clearing the dust: apology, honest conversations, care.

4. Wait for Clarity – Renewal often doesn’t happen immediately. Clarity comes gradually, as air settles, as people see more clearly, as habits shift.

Closing Reflection

La calima reminds us that not everything that blinds is dramatic. Some of the greatest dimming in the church happens slowly — in the haze.

But the gospel is always about bringing clarity, clearing the fog, restoring sight. It whispers that even when the dust is thick, God’s light is still strong. And sometimes, the first faithful thing we must do is simply wait — faithful, expectant, honest — trusting that the air will clear, even if we can’t yet see every star. And then other times, the second faithful thing is knowing when God is moving you out of a place where la calima regularly occurs when others are perfectly content or paralyzed to not make a change. Pray for discernment and always move toward both grace and truth.

If this resonates with you, maybe spend a few moments this week asking:

• Where do I feel clouded — what makes the spiritual air thick in my church or in my heart?

• What could I do to help clear that atmosphere (confession, truth-telling, asking hard questions)?

• Who might need you to stand exposed, clear-eyed — just so the haze begins to lift?

I wrote both The Jacked Up Life and The Jacked Up Church to help people and churches diagnose faulty foundations in their lives and churches and help them pour a new foundation instead of ignoring or patching the cracks beneath. You can find them on Amazon in both paperback and Kindle format!

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Every church has cracks—some hairline, others gaping. Underneath polished programs, passionate worship, and inspiring teaching, many communities are quietly fractured by pride, power struggles, misplaced identity, and unresolved pain. When guilt, fear, and shame shake the foundation of a church, it’s tempting to patch over the mess and hope no one notices.

But what if the only way forward is through a season of uncomfortable renovation?

In my new book that releases today, “The Jacked-Up Church,” I apply the same gritty honesty and restorative hope that defined “The Jacked-Up Life” to the broken body of Christ. This book isn’t a takedown—it’s a call to deep, collective reflection and healing. With a bold blend of spiritual insight and practical wisdom, this book helps pastors, leaders, and lay members confront:

• The hidden dysfunctions we spiritualize or ignore

• The cultural identities we’ve substituted for Christ

• The fear of conflict that prevents real discipleship

• The pride that masks as vision, and the shame that silences truth

Whether your church is in crisis, decline, or simply coasting on past momentum, “The Jacked-Up Church” dares to ask: What are we really building on—and are we willing to lift the structure and rebuild from the ground up?

This is a book for the bold. For those who still believe the Church, even in its most jacked-up state, is worth restoring. And for those who know that a cracked foundation doesn’t have to mean collapse—it can mean it’s time for the crew to show up and get to work.

Available on Amazon starting today.

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