What we did not expect was to become part of one.

Originally, the course was supposed to be taught by Pastor Chris, an experienced church planter who had served for many years in Africa. But before the semester began, circumstances changed. Pastor Chris stepped away to care for his parents: a calling and ministry in itself, and one that carried its own quiet honor. Instead, the class would be taught by Pastor Mat.

He was young, honest, and refreshingly transparent. There was only one problem: He had never planted a church before. On paper, that might sound like a disaster for a church planting class. But it turned out to be the very thing God wanted.

Pastor Mat stood before us and explained that because he himself had never planted a church, he did not feel qualified to simply lecture us academically about the process. Instead, he proposed something different: We would learn together. Not merely by studying church planting, but by attempting it.

“If this sounds daunting or wasn’t what you expected,” he told us, “you are free to drop the class. No judgment. No condemnation.”

Those of us who stayed unknowingly stepped into something special. What began as a class slowly transformed into a real team, and eventually, into an adventure.

At first, everything felt uncertain.

We broke into groups and researched potential locations for the church plant. Different teams studied different cities and towns: Catonsville, Hagerstown, Westminster, and even Philadelphia. We researched demographics, economics, churches in the area, schools, population trends, local culture, and community needs. It felt practical at first… Analytical. Strategic. But beneath all of it was a growing sense that God was guiding something.

Then came the vote. Completely anonymous. No lobbying. No pressure. And somehow, almost mysteriously, the class became unified around one location:

Westminster.

At the time, none of us fully understood why. But over the weeks that followed, we slowly began to realize something: God had opened a door there. And all we had to do was walk through it.

Our Saturdays eventually settled into a rhythm. We would meet around 2:00 p.m. at a centrally located coffee shop in downtown Westminster. We would share a short Bible study, pray together, split into groups, and walk throughout the town talking to people, praying, exploring, listening, and simply being available to whatever God might want to do. There was no production. No marketing campaign. No smoke machines or fundraising goals. Just a group of believers trying to walk by faith. And almost immediately, God began moving.

During one of the very first outreaches, a woman opened up about her life, broke down emotionally, and accepted Christ. I still remember Pastor Mat’s response afterward:

“Anything beyond this is a bonus.”

In other words, we had already succeeded. Not because we launched a church. Not because we drew a crowd. But because one person encountered Jesus. That moment established the heartbeat of the entire mission. This was never about building something impressive. It was about people.

As the weeks passed, Westminster stopped feeling unfamiliar. The streets became recognizable. The café became familiar ground. The people became familiar faces. And somehow, all of us began looking forward to Saturdays. Not because we had to be there, but because we wanted to be. That alone felt significant. The café embraced us almost immediately and eventually allowed us to use an upstairs meeting room for our Bible studies. There was something deeply encouraging about gathering there together before heading out into the town. At times, it genuinely felt like an “upper room.” A commissioning place. A place of prayer, expectation, laughter, testimonies, and loose strategy.

One Saturday, it happened to be just me and my friend Elijah sitting there talking about the Lord. Across from us sat one of the café’s chefs. Eventually he chimed into the conversation with an encouraging word. We discovered he was a Christian. Not only that, he loved what we were doing. It was another connection, another divine appointment, and another reminder that God was already present in Westminster long before we arrived. That became one of the recurring themes of the entire semester: We were not bringing God into Westminster. We were discovering where He was already moving.

For several weeks, we continued the same rhythm: Bible study at the café, prayer, and then spreading out through the town. Sometimes it felt like we were doing exactly what Joshua and Caleb did: surveying the land, walking through it with faith, asking God what He saw there. We explored the local shops, walked the streets, spoke with business owners. We visited McDaniel College, prayed over people quietly, and learned the spiritual atmosphere of the town.

And then one day, Pastor Mat walked into the downtown library. What happened next almost felt unbelievable. Inside the library was a newly renovated lower level with its own entrance, a large brand new meeting room, classrooms, podcast studios, 3D printers, and brand new technology. Naturally, he asked what it would cost for a church or nonprofit to rent the space on Saturdays for a few hours. The answer?

Nothing.

Free.

A space that many church planters would spend years praying for and fundraising toward was simply handed to us with ease.

Again, God had gone before us. Again, another open door. Again, another story. Not flashy, not dramatic, just quiet, profound provision. That became the rhythm of the semester. God kept showing up again and again.

What surprised me most was how deeply all of us began to love the mission itself. Not merely the idea of church planting, but the actual experience of it. The unity among the class became extraordinary. We all got to know each other in ways we wouldn’t have otherwise. It was a privilege to encounter the portion of Christ in each person. Bonds were formed that a classroom could never provide. We were on a team, we were in it together, we all played a part, and we all cared about each other. There was very little ego. Very little striving. Everyone simply brought whatever gifts they had to the table. Some taught, some evangelized. Others brought their musical skills, organized, encouraged, designed, prayed. It all worked together beautifully. There was also almost no pressure. No investors. No hard deadlines. No sense that we had to manufacture results. We were simply asked to show up faithfully and participate, and strangely enough, that freedom motivated us more deeply than pressure ever could have. We were not motivated by fear of failure, we were motivated by joy. That changed everything.

Eventually, the mission took on a name:

The Well.

A fitting name. A place where thirsty people come to draw water. A place to encounter Jesus. A place of conversation, where ordinary people meet God. I had the privilege of helping develop the name, create a loose brand identity and logo, and start the Instagram page. It became more than an assignment to many of us. It became personal.

By the end of the semester, we held four Saturday services at Exploration Commons at Carroll County Public Library. And remarkably, people came. Classmates served together. Messages were preached. Worship filled the room. What began as an uncertain classroom experiment had somehow become a functioning little church gathering. Not because anyone forced it into existence, but because God breathed on it.

In the end, I do not think the greatest lesson was how to plant a church. I think the greatest lesson was learning what the Church actually is. The Church is not ultimately a building. It is not branding. It is not budgets, attendance charts, or polished productions. The Church is people walking with Christ together. Serving together. Praying together. Trusting together. Obeying together. “The Well” felt mobile in the best possible sense. It reminded me that we are pilgrims. This world is not our home. Our roots are ultimately planted in Christ, not merely in a physical structure. Ironically, by not obsessing over building a church, we may have stumbled into becoming one.

And maybe that was the lesson all along.

I do not think any of us will ever forget this experience. Not because it was massive. (It wasn’t at all). Not because it became famous. (None of us would have wanted that anyway). But simply because it was real. There was something pure about it. A group of believers saying yes to God without fully knowing what would happen next, and then watching Him faithfully meet us there, week after week.

Looking back now, I honestly believe “The Well” became more than a class project. It became a stream of living water flowing through a town, and through all of us. And I think every single one of us left changed because of it.

No toll. No test. No questions that would make them feel exposed.

Just presence. Just steadiness. Just a path that doesn’t move beneath their feet.

They step onto me uncertain at first, but it doesn’t take long. They feel it. The strength. The safety. The way I hold their weight without complaint.

So they stay for a while. They sit on my beams and speak, really speak… about the things they don’t say out loud anywhere else. Their fears, their longings, their regrets, their hopes. They cry sometimes. They laugh sometimes. Sometimes they even meet God here for the first time in their life.

And for a moment, they call me safe. Sometimes they even call me home. But I have come to understand something I didn’t see before.

I was never home. I was never the place they were meant to stay. I was the way across.

At first, I thought that meant something noble. That it was a calling to be this for people: steady, present, faithful, a place where others could gather themselves before continuing on.

And maybe it is. But no one told me what it would cost to live in the middle. To be the thing people pass over on their way to somewhere else. To hold them long enough for them to heal, but never long enough for them to choose me.

Because for me, love doesn’t begin the way it seems to begin for them.

For me, it grows.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Through time, consistency, shared life, proven character.

I fall in love by watching someone live.

By seeing who they are when no one is looking.

By walking through things together, joy, grief, ministry, ordinary days that become sacred simply because they’re shared.

That’s where my attraction comes from. That’s where it deepens.

But for the women I have loved, it begins somewhere else entirely.

In intrigue. In feeling. In perception. In imagination. In something untested. Unproven. Unlived. They feel something first: a pull, a spark, a curiosity… and then maybe, later, they build something on top of that.

And I… I leave no room for that. I show up fully. Immediately. I am steady before I am mysterious. Safe before I am intriguing. Present before I am desired. I become their protector, their constant, their emotional support.

I listen. I guide. I correct gently. I carry weight that isn’t mine because I don’t know how not to. And in doing so, I create something real. Something deep. Something dependable.

But not something that ignites.

I bring end-stage relationship energy to the very beginning. And it does exactly what it’s supposed to do: It creates security. It builds trust. It makes me indispensable. But it quietly removes something else.

Tension. Mystery. Desire.

So I become known. Deeply known. Respected. Trusted. Valued. Emotionally important.

But never chosen.

They want what I am. They just don’t want it from me. Because by the time they recognize its value, I am already something else in their life. Not the man they move toward, but the one they return to when they need to feel steady again.

I am everyone’s bridge. And I have been proud of that. Proud to hold. Proud to carry. Proud to be strong enough for others when they were not.

But bridges are not meant to be lived on. And something in me is beginning to give way under the weight of always being the place people pass through.

I can feel it now. The strain. The quiet cracking beneath the surface. Not from one person, but from a lifetime of being the same thing to too many. Because I have started to see it clearly: There is a version of me that keeps building this bridge. And as long as he stands, this pattern will not change. So this bridge must collapse. Not in anger or bitterness. Not in rejection of the people who walked across it. But in truth.

The part of me that: gives everything at the beginning, removes all uncertainty, makes himself completely known before he is ever chosen, becomes the caretaker instead of the man… that part cannot remain. Because I do not want to stop being steady, faithful, present, protective, grounded in God.

But I must learn to reveal those things in time, not offer them all at once. To allow space for what seems to matter much more to the people who walk across: curiosity, discovery… movement toward me, not just comfort on me… Some kind of, chase.

The bridge collapsing is not failure. It is the first honest thing I have done in a long time. Because maybe I was never meant to be the place everyone passes through. Maybe I was meant to be a place someone, some one and only singular woman chooses to stay. And that cannot happen as long as I remain everyone’s bridge.

And when the beams finally give way, and I fall into the sea I’ve spent so long spanning, it won’t be an ending, but a return to something deeper than being walked on. When the wood and steel surrender to the tide, I will sink beneath the surface, not as something ruined but as something released. What drowns here is not who I am, only what I was never meant to keep being. And when I am swallowed up by the sea I will no longer be something to cross – but something alive, not held together for others, but held by God Himself.

“Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so he may run who reads it. For still the vision awaits its appointed time…” – Habakkuk 2:2-3

In the winter of 2015, a Bible college student from Bangalore, India, stood atop Federal Hill in Baltimore with Pastor Justin. Together, they prayed over a neighborhood they barely knew, interceding for a vision that didn’t yet exist—a small church in Federal Hill that would reach people, transform lives, and reflect the heart of God. The group was small. The resources were limited. But the faith was real.

That student, Vijay, would soon return to India. He saw the church in his mind’s eye, but it was only a dream—a sacred echo cast across continents. They prayed anyway, hands clasped, hearts full of faith. A seed was planted in frozen soil.

Baltimore, 2019

“The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and He delights in his way” – Psalm 37:23

Four years later, I was wandering through Federal Hill—new to Baltimore, no place to live yet—when I walked past a little church tucked in between the row homes. I did a double take. Something stirred. It was quiet, unassuming, but it felt like a divine interruption. I stepped inside.

God was showing me where He was going to anchor me before I even had a place to live. That church became my real home. Unbeknownst to me, through it I’d become part of a worldwide ministry.

It would take years before I’d learn that this was the very place prayed for on that hill, and even longer before I’d meet Vijay himself—this time, in his city, in his church, across the ocean in Bangalore, India.

Reluctance and Resistance

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding…” – Proverbs 3:5-6

When I was first invited to India, I didn’t want to go. I was exhausted. Heartbroken. Discouraged. My life was full—ministry, responsibilities, work, ache. I had grown so comfortable in the “nest” that I questioned why I should leave. Why travel so far when there was such desperate need right here in Baltimore?

There was a time in the not so distant past when I used to travel like a maniac. Wrestling with the invitation, I remembered my earlier trips—to Kenya in high school and college, to Ghana in 2014 with my grieving friend Mark. Back then, pain was the doorway to adventure where God pushed us outside our comfort zone, shook things up, and beckoned us on an adventure where we’d need Him and catch an eternal perspective that let us know, nothing in His economy is wasted.

Kenya was my first mission trip as a young believer. God wasted no time tossing me into the deep end. There would be no easing into this. I remember being terrified; there were a million reasons not to go. I hesitated, feared, questioned if I was ready for that kind of undertaking. And then in no time I found myself trekking through some of the worst slums in the world, God proving that He was leading me, that in His will there was nothing to fear despite what I perceived by sight. Immediately I fell in love with the unpredictable ruggedness, the thrill, the adventure, the need to rely on God. I’d end up going back for years on end. It felt like God always used something to send me out of my comfort zone and into something transformative. Still, it had been eleven years since I last stepped into the raw, holy chaos of the third world. I’d grown accustomed to life in the West. My money was spent on a house and other priorities, but God wasn’t done with me when it came to adventure. He was warming me up. He was establishing roots and a homebase, but now, calling me higher, challenging me to step out, reminding me that the need wasn’t in India for me to go and meet, it was in me to be met by God.

And then… this trip. Doors opened. Time off was granted. The trip was paid for. Everything aligned. I could feel God whispering, “Go. I’ll meet you there. This one is for you.”

So I went.

Still reluctant. Still sad. Still fighting back tears in the airport at Dulles because I was alone. But still I went.

Arrival in Bangalore

“My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest” – Exodus 33:14

That was the verse of the week in my yearly planner booklet.

My flight landed in Bangalore at 4:00 a.m. I didn’t know who would be picking me up.

Then I saw a man at baggage claim—smiling, eyes full of warmth—call out my name.

“Joshua!”

We’d never met, but I immediately felt the Kingdom. I trusted him. I got into the car.

To the world, this might seem reckless. But to those in the Kingdom, it was simple:

“My sheep hear my voice… and they follow Me.” (John 10:27)

As we sped through the disordered streets, that old familiar feeling came rushing back—the one I hadn’t felt since Kenya or Ghana: the thrill of surrender. The raw beauty of holy unpredictability. The sacred chaos of the East over the polished control of the West. I felt seen, known, protected by God, in the center of His will, and there I found peace. I felt completely safe, totally at ease walking through the crowded streets with cars, buses, rickshaws and motorcycles flying past me within centimeters… everything was timed and measured to perfection amid all the chaos and honking. There were no accidents, no struck pedestrians, just a perfect flow of chaos, a mesmerizing rhythm that took me back to Africa.

Back home, I flinch if a car veers too close. There, I felt peace. In the West, we define safety by control. But the Spirit reminded me: the safety of God’s will may look like chaos to the natural mind, but it’s more secure than anything manufactured by man.

I laid my head against the window, sighed deeply, and smiled. I’m home again.

Rediscovering the Kingdom

“So in Christ, we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others” – Romans 12:5

I expected to sleep on a couch in a hot apartment. Instead, I was taken to a comfortable hotel where I could rest and recover from the long flights. God was caring for me through His people—kindness I didn’t ask for, but needed. After I slept, I stepped out onto the hotel room veranda overlooking a courtyard of palm trees. The view, the outdated furniture, the smell, it reminded me of another veranda where I encountered God in 2006, in Nairobi, Kenya. I felt visited, recognized, kept by God, in the center of His will.

The moment I stepped onto the church campus, I was overwhelmed. The smiles, the hospitality, the hunger for God—it was radiant. These weren’t sophisticated professionals. These were people alive in the Spirit, hungry for God.

I was reminded of what I’m part of: not just a church, but a real Kingdom.

There’s nothing like it on earth. No perfect government exists, but a perfect Kingdom does. And somehow, by grace, we belong to it. We’re nothing special in the eyes of the world, yet we’re chosen by God, set apart. The world bonds over shared culture and status; the Kingdom unites us through the blood of Jesus. I met people so different from me in every natural way—background, language, custom—and yet I recognized them immediately. The Spirit makes strangers family. It supersedes all those barriers and differences.

At home, I often feel like an anomaly. There, I was received like a brother. Not because they knew my story, but because they knew my Savior.

That first evening at the church conference we were asked when we first “saw” the Body of Christ. I remember when I was a kid at a youth group. I wasn’t a believer yet, but I felt love and belonging in a way I never had before. Since then, I’ve seen the Body in an eclectic group of misfits at my home small group Bible study, at my parents’ house during our summer church picnics on the Chesapeake, in a broken nursing home in a rough area of Baltimore that God calls royalty, at a homeless shelter in Washington, DC, in the faces of friends in Kenya, Ghana, across Europe and the U.S., and there in that moment, in that room with all of the Indians.

The world tries to mimic what we have, with clubs, movements, ideologies, but it lacks the power, the spirit, the cross. Who we are in the new creation is the only reality and identity that matters. The world calls it delusional – faith calls it divine. (2 Cor 5:17).

For believers, we get to live in that new creation now – not perfectly, but truly. We can walk in wisdom the world can’t touch, because it didn’t give it. (James 3:17). The world pays a lot of money for cheaper wisdom that doesn’t transform, but we’ve been given something for free that is eternal, something unearned, something holy. I was reminded of it again in a new light that evening, and it brightened for me the perspective of the ministries I have the privilege of being a part of back home. What a sacred life.

Immediately I had new, lifelong friends. The conversations rolled into the night, and although sleepless and jetlagged, none of it mattered. The revelation of God was quickening and sustaining, I didn’t want it to end. I realized that eleven years in the West was far too long, and I never wanted it to go that long again. It dawned on me why God not only prodded, but provided for me to go. He wanted to take me back, to remind me of what mattered, to see things once again from His bigger picture perspective, to ignite the fire again in me. It was the emotional fatigue within me and the comforts of my own society that needed to be handled, and God had the remedy. His solution?  “Therefore, go.”

The Hill and the Vision

“Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think” – Ephesians 3:20

That’s when I met Vijay—the very man who stood on Federal Hill in 2015, praying for the church that would one day become my spiritual home.

He told me about that day. The cold. The uncertainty. The prayer. I thought about how many times I’ve walked the few blocks from my home to that same hill—alone, praying, writing, wrestling with God. In heartbreak, joy, confusion, thankfulness. It had become sacred to me. And now I realized—it was sacred long before I got there.

I was living in someone else’s answered prayer.

Sent and Seen

“For am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God? … If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ” – Galatians 1:10

The next day, I was asked to speak at the conference—an introduction, just ten minutes or so.

And something happened.

I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t afraid. I was free. It’s like I was sent, and in that sending, something lifted. I had nothing to prove, no past to outrun. Just the Word of God and the Spirit in me.

I’ve spoken in India. In Africa. In dusty sanctuaries with barefoot children and ceiling fans that barely work, where the Spirit is so near you could almost reach out and hold Him. I’ve spoken through translators to people who don’t know my name—but who somehow know my soul.

And I’ve never felt more alive.

But when I come home? I freeze. Because when I am sent, I am only seen by God. But when I am home, I am seen by man—and I feel it. Back to the church that has seen my tears, my silence, my awkwardness. Home knows your history. Home remembers your wounds. Home watches closely. And I… tremble.

Jesus knew this pain:

“A prophet is not without honor except in his hometown…” (Matthew 13:57)

There’s a kind of spiritual safety when you’re far from the context that formed you. No one’s projecting your past onto you. No one’s watching to see if you’ve gotten it “together” yet. You are just a vessel—nothing more, nothing less.

But at home, you’re not just the vessel. You’re the guy from the men’s group who went quiet for a while. You’re the one they saw crying in worship two years ago. You’re the one who loved someone deeply, and lost them. You are not just heard—you are remembered. And that weight can silence the tongue God gave you.

The crowd abroad sees the message. The crowd at home sees the man. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s where God does His most humbling work. Because if I can learn to share in Baltimore—in the places that have seen me weep, wander, wrestle, who know the long arc of my becoming—then I’m not preaching for honor or from performance. I’m sharing from surrender.

It’s easy to feel anointed when no one knows your wounds. But what if the greater anointing is being willing to stand where you were once small? What if real authority comes when you’re not just sent—but also seen? Real authority doesn’t come from being understood. It comes from being obedient. The Spirit that filled me in India has never left me in Baltimore.

When in India or Africa, the task is clear, the need is raw, the room is humble and hungry. There’s no performance, no comparison, just presence. It frees my spirit to flow. At home, where histories and expectations linger, the mission gets clouded, and I feel the weight of being watched. I am not someone who powers through emotionally sterile environments. I pick up what’s in the room. When there’s hunger, I’m bold. When there’s apathy or unspoken judgment, it stifles my fire. This discernment reminds me that I need spiritual covering and inner clarity to rise above the room when necessary. Home isn’t also just where I live. It’s where I’ve been broken. And so, standing there costs more. Abroad, I am free from ghosts, where I’m surrounded by them at home. Preaching at home requires not just a voice, but a resurrection. When depth, surrender, and truth are in the room, then I rise. When it’s not, I feel it, my soul aches, and my mouth hesitates. But the vessel doesn’t change based on the room. I am still His, still called, whether sent or seen.

Seen by God and Man

“Let love and faithfulness never leave you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart. Then you will win favor and a good name in the sight of God and man” – Proverbs 3:3-4

The days were full, from worship, messages, fellowship, incredible hospitality, endless food, the funny, rhythmic bobble of Indian heads, more fellowship, and I didn’t want it to end. A quickening spirit came upon me; so much adrenaline. Yet in all honesty, back at the hotel, I had a moment when I climbed into bed alone and cried because I deeply wanted to share the experience with someone I loved and who loved me back. He saw my tears and knew my heart. That night I was reminded of how I sometimes felt back home, an anomaly, a pariah, and yet God whispered to me that I was set apart, being used by Him, and so I felt humbled, the weight of the paradox of it all, seen, known, loved by Him.

The night before we flew to Mumbai, Pastor Justin shared from the heart of a pastor, how he prayed for men to fill the gaps of his weakness. He acknowledged me as one, and it was such a tremendous, humbling honor I will never forget. And it wouldn’t have landed the way it did in my heart if we were not in India.

Rich in What Matters

“Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken away from her” – Luke 10:42

The night before the last night, 30-40 of us gathered in a small Mumbai apartment. Crammed in that small space with no distractions, just reverence for the word, just Jesus. We represented America, India, Ireland, and many other places, and we were sitting at His feet. For a moment I thought back to Kenya, to the poor slums, to the most impoverished people on the face of the earth who were far richer than I could ever be, because they were rich in what mattered, they were rich in the Spirit, they lived lives completely dependent on God, and it made for a joyful existence that surpassed circumstance. I was living it again, seeing it with clearer eyes, and it was nothing short of captivating.

Obedience Will Cost You

“And whoever does not take his cross and follow Me is not worthy of Me” – Matthew 10:38

The final night in India, I shared again. The church in Mumbai was hot. Humid. Mosquitoes swarmed. My shirt clung to me. The fans didn’t suffice.

But I felt joy. There was no place I’d rather have been. And I shared what I learned.

Obedience will always come with resistance. Not because God is cruel—but because the enemy is real and hates when we move forward in obedience.

And the resistance often wears the mask of wisdom:

“You don’t have the time.”

“You can’t afford it.”

“You’re not ready.”

“You’re not enough.”

“You’re too flawed.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

But the question isn’t what makes sense. The question is: What did God say?

Perfect love casts out fear. (1 John 4:18)

Fear is the enemy’s weapon. Every time God calls us to step into something sacred, whether its ministry, relationship, a new city, mission field, career, Bible College, endeavor, fear tries to sabotage it. And not just fear of danger, but more subtle fears: fear of being misunderstood, letting people down, being rejected or abandoned, that we’re not enough, that we’ll lose control or comfort, that our wounds will be exposed, of being vulnerable, seen, known, even loved. But if we listen closely, quietly, we’ll hear the voice of our Shepherd, and His voice cuts through the noise.

For me there were many reasons to say no to the trip. I was being discouraged on every front, but each traced back to my own fleeting feelings and insecurities, my flesh, the world, and the enemy. There’s always an excuse not to follow God. There’s always a safer option, a more reasonable path, but the presence of God is always worth discomfort. (Psalm 71:5). The same attacks that came upon me to discourage me about Kenya as a teenager crept up to attack me again as an adult. Resistance. That’s how I should have known it was the call of God “count it all joy” that it was the confirmation I was supposed to go. The enemy was trying hard to discourage me, yet a reversal of the thinking revealed Christ.

I encouraged the church not to let fear choose your life. Not fear of people, of failure, of pain, or inadequacy. God was saying then and to me before I departed for India, “Take My nail-scarred hands. Step out. Trust Me. You’ll find Me where I’m taking you. I promise.”

We can live curated lives built around control. Or we can walk into the wild call of God that will make us vulnerable and dependent.

And it will cost us.

It will cost us comfort.
It will cost us control.
It will cost us the illusion of self-sufficiency.

But in losing all of that, we gain Christ.

Do we want comfort or an adventure with God? Do we want a carefully curated and planned out life, scripted by us, for our own control, or do we want His plan that we can’t fully see or know but are being asked to walk forward in by faith? Do we want to manufacture our destiny, or do we want to trust His, even when it seems impractical, even foolish to the wisdom of the world and to ourselves? Anxious minds are produced in us whenever we think we’re in or must be in control. But real love will require the death of ego and control. Refining love will always produce tension before it produces fruit. And if a leader isn’t tuned to spiritual depth, they may counsel someone to walk away from the thing sent to sharpen them, to grow them. Soothing rather than sharpening can feel like peace, but it’s often just the absence of friction, not the presence of growth. Thankfully, the spiritually attuned people around me saw the tension, the discouragement, and knew that I wouldn’t have been under relentless attack if God didn’t want me to go. If I had received affirmation without discernment, to appease how my flesh “felt” about the trip, it may have felt like love but would have protected a false peace. Peace isn’t proven by the absence of conflict, but rather by the presence of truth.

When I see who I am in light of who He is, I am put in my proper place, I see myself clearly, I know myself in the context of the one who knows and has made me. The believer grows rich by his losses, rises by his falls, lives by dying, and becomes full by being emptied. Various trials make us into useful vessels. By taking me on the trip He was calling me higher, I just needed to listen through the noise to recognize that and not give into fear. I needed to come to India to get my perspective right, to see what I wouldn’t be able to see otherwise. I was letting fear and frustration control me prior, and could have backed out, but perfect love said, “Trust Me, even though it doesn’t feel comfortable or make sense to you, you’ll be glad you did.” And with breathless expectation, I boarded the plane and allowed God to have His way.

I found God around every corner in India, from the fast-paced streets of Bombay (Mumbai) where a simple walk is death-defying, to noticing as we whipped by in the chaos from the airport to the hotel, graffiti that said, “Jesus loves you.” It was so quick no one else saw it but me, and I nodded to God and smiled. I saw God in the pastors, missionaries, congregants, in my pastor, and even in myself. It was everything I needed when I needed it, to awaken me out of a western slumber and remind me of the depth, realness of the spiritual reality all around me, and of what I’m in. The Kingdom. It’s easy to grow familiar, to get locked into routine and miss the ruggedness, the unpredictability of trusting and leaning on God rather than unconsciously thinking I’m in control. Fear and control, such vile things.

A Final Gift

“Your Father knows what you need before you ask Him” – Matthew 6:8

After I had shared my heart one last time before the church in Mumbai, one of the local pastors approached me gently.

“Are you married?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He smiled and said with quiet confidence, “God is going to bring the perfect wife for you.”

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t forced. It was simple… and sacred.

And somehow, it reached into that quiet ache I carried across oceans, the tears I had cried in the hotel room earlier in the trip. God saw them, and He answered, not with a timeline, but with a word.

But God wasn’t done speaking.

As I left Mumbai, early in the morning, I stood in the hotel lobby—alone. And then I heard a voice.

“Joshua?”

It was Dexter, a new friend from Massachusetts I had just met on the trip.

“I was coming downstairs hoping I’d see you. And then thought it was a stupid idea. I turned to leave… and there you were.”

We hugged. We prayed. And in that moment, I heard God whisper:

“Well done. You came. You trusted Me. And I’m sending you home—not empty, but full.”

Coming Home

“And they remembered that God was their rock, the Most High God their redeemer” – Psalm 78:35

When I returned to Baltimore, I walked back up Federal Hill. Same city. Same skyline. Same questions. But something was different. I carried with me the weight of sacred places, sacred friendships, sacred yeses. I had felt the wind of the Spirit in Mumbai, the joy of the saints in Bangalore, the smile of strangers who became brothers and sisters. I had been seen and sent.
And I had seen the Kingdom again.

So now—whether I’m abroad or at home… whether I’m remembered or misunderstood… I will speak.

Because this is the sacred work:
To go where He calls.
To love the ones He brings.
To trust Him through the fear.

And to believe that the story isn’t over yet.

Slow growth is a good thing. If something grows too fast, it may actually be detrimental. If Israel took out all their enemies at once with ease and took possession of the Promised Land, would they ever have had to exercise faith and rely on God? They would have become proud and boastful, taking the credit for subduing their enemies and capturing the land. They would have never grown or matured, nor would their faith be living and real. They would have also missed out on God’s glory, power, deliverances, might, majesty, and grace. God was more interested in the hearts of His people becoming more like His and less like themselves. God is unchanging (Malachi 3:6), and the same is true today.

As believers, we have many enemies: The world, the flesh, and the devil, and all the effects of these: Fear, anger, bitterness, unforgiveness, doubts, unbelief, negative thinking, to name a few. As we walk with Jesus and abide in Him, (John 15:4) His Spirit in us will subdue these enemies (Philippians 2:13), little by little, forming us more and more into His image (2 Corinthians 3:18). No baby goes from birth to adulthood overnight. When Christ is born in our hearts, the same is true (John 3:3). He is growing up in us, and as He does, we decrease as He increases (John 3:30), and we become more of our true selves, the selves we were created to be – children of The Most High God (1 John 3:1).

There are two tragedies in life – not getting our heart’s desire and getting our heart’s desire. Why is that? Because the only thing that can truly fill and satisfy the human heart is God.

In Zechariah 4:10, the scripture says, “Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.” Every seed has everything it needs to become a tree or flower. Inside it is equipped with everything it needs, all the materials necessary to form that finished product. In a sense, the seed already is that tree or flower, it just has to grow up into what it already is, in the same way a baby grows into an adult. If a baby is shown an image of who he or she will be in 30 years, the baby would certainly not understand what they were looking at, they would not have the capacity for it.

In John 16:12, Jesus says, “I have much more to say to you, but you can’t bear it now.” And in John 13:7, “You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.”

A baby can’t bear the weight of being a full-grown adult, nor can an acorn see or understand the oak tree that it will one day become. Back in 2020, when I first started serving dinner at the Helping Up Mission in Baltimore, I could have never known at the time that the Lord was forging in me a heart that reflected what He was interested in. “The day of small things” was a seed planted in my heart that would eventually lead to a Bible Study after our dinner service, that would then lead to me being the one who fell into leading it, and eventually grow and blossom into having such a heart for the ministry that the Lord would open the door for me to work at Central Union Mission in 2024. If I saw the future back then I wouldn’t have been able to bear or understand it, I had to grow up into it and walk with God the whole way.

Does a parent ever sit down with a toddler and tell them all about the responsibilities they will have in college or about all they will be tasked with at their first job, or the trials they will face with loss, heartbreak, disappointment, failures and successes? Of course not. The child is not able to comprehend what will be.

Everything we need to become the fullness of Christ in us is already there. It is not something we have to work for or attain. The wind, the rain, the storms, the cold, the heat, and the sunshine all grow the seed into the tree or the flower. These are circumstances we cannot control, but the Lord knows just how many storms, how much rain, how much sunshine is necessary for each individual seed to grow up into the image of Himself. With each external condition and pressure, we must rely on God, exercise faith, believe that “little by little” He is moving us forward, closer to Him, subduing our enemies, helping our roots to go down deeper (Jeremiah 17:8). This is nothing we can work for or attain. In the same way, there is nothing a child must do to earn a parent’s love. The child, by simply being who he or she already is, a son or daughter, is loved unconditionally by the parent.

We are children of the King, heirs, a royal priesthood, a chosen people (1 Peter 2:9). Everything the King has is ours, as we are His family. If we keep on recognizing who and whose we are and keep reminding ourselves to simply be who He says we are, our identity is going to be more secure, we are going to look more and more like Him, grow up more and more into that flower or tree, and He will be the one in us doing all the work (Philippians 2:13) just like the seed that has everything inside it to become the tree. The work was finished once and for all on the cross (John 19:30), now we live into and grow up into that finished work. Ephesians 2:10 says, “For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” Are we the ones doing the work and growing ourselves from seed to tree? No, rather God is the one who has done all the work, for there is no one good except Him (Romans 3:10). Therefore, any good that we do is Him in us, and that seed is growing into the tree: the fullness and likeness of Christ (Ephesians 4:13).

Because we are His and He has been born in us, a seed that will become a tree, our motivations change, our desires change, and we are convicted and continually look in His direction. His sheep hear His voice (John 10:27) and not one of them will be lost (John 6:39). If you are born you can’t become unborn. In the same way, when we become believers and Christ is born in our hearts, we cannot be lost. What incredible eternal security!

“Beloved, we are [even here and] now children of God, and it is not yet made clear what we will be [after His coming]. We know that when He comes and is revealed, we will [as His children] be like Him, because we will see Him just as He is [in all His glory]” – 1 John 3:2

“And I am sure of this, that He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ” – Philippians 1:6

Her clothes were filthy. It was clear she’d been living on the streets for quite some time. Disheveled, leaving a trail of foul stench, she made her way through the church doors, empty-handed. Bright, warm lights of chandeliers against old brick walls glowed as a beacon on that rainy night in Baltimore. The close-knit neighborhood had never seen this particular woman, and of all nights for her to show up it was the evening of the church’s semi-annual Thrift Market. Inside, donated and unwanted items and clothes were on display for sale, all proceeds supporting the church’s city ministries which included provision for the homeless. That night, a would-be recipient of those funds unknowingly made an appearance.

“I don’t have any money,” the woman said, “But can I just go ahead and take a few things?” Her shameless audacity was humbling. She was not trying to cover up her homelessness, but she also wasn’t proud of it. She expressed a need and a willingness to admit it.

“Please, go ahead. Take whatever you’d like.”

For a while, the woman meandered around the tables, pausing every so often to mumble out loud to herself. Customers came and went as the evening bustled with a flurry of activity. The woman slowly walked around each table and rack, gathering handfuls of clothing, stuffing whatever she found useful into a duffle bag. Eventually she sat down and scooped a cookie from the refreshment table. I approached and asked her name.

“Emily,” she replied. “Can you fix me a cup of coffee?”

Originally from New York, she had been living on the streets for over 20 years; Baltimore for the last nine months.

“Do you know of any shelters around here I can stay for the night?” she asked.

“The Helping Up Mission has a woman’s shelter. I can call them and let them know you need a place, and get you an Uber,” I replied.

“That would be great. If you don’t mind, I’m going to get changed before I leave.”

Emily gathered her bag and shuffled to the bathroom. The Uber was on its way and the Mission was informed that a guest would be arriving shortly. When she emerged from the bathroom it had become apparent that she had thrown out her old clothes. Her filthy garments were hanging out of the garbage can next to the toilet. She now wore a fresh pair of pajama pants and a crisp white T-shirt with the word ‘Chosen’ emblazoned across it. In small lettering beneath was the reference: 1 Peter 2:9.

Emily was beaming. She looked new. There was a difference in her walk. The white clean clothes shimmered on her in contrast to the black filthy clothes now disposed of. She thanked us, made her way out the door where the Uber waited, a chariot to whisk this chosen one off to safe shelter, a hot shower, meal, and warm bed. What an image. That night she was led through the doors to the very place that would provide her everything she needed, in the name of Jesus.

Emily could have kept her dirty clothes, been too proud to admit her need, kept away from the church, acted like she could afford the items and try to run out with them, but instead she was open, honest, transparent; not entitled but able to freely express her need. She was exactly what God was looking for.

The world looked at Emily as a burden on society, someone useless, hopeless, and unable to contribute. Mumbling to herself, it was clear that a mental impairment kept her on the streets. There was no place for her, and yet God’s ways, being the opposite of the world, saw her as His dearly beloved, useful, valued, given a seat at His table. While the world looked upon the outward appearance, He saw the heart, His desire was towards her, He sought her, guided her, picked her out, and chose her. What the world considers foolish the Lord saw as wisdom. And there it was, on display before our eyes. Like Joshua in Zechariah 3, the filthy garments of sin were exchanged for clean garments of righteousness. This was a free gift.

In the parable of the Wedding Banquet (Matthew 22) Jesus teaches that being properly dressed is essential to attend the feast (the Kingdom of Heaven). Everyone, from every tribe, tongue, nation, and background, regardless of their moral standing, is invited – both those the world considers ‘righteous’ and ‘sinful.’ Only those who accept the invitation find themselves to be the chosen ones. These chosen guests are given wedding garments, representing the perfection and sinlessness required to enter the Kingdom, which comes through Christ, not from their own actions. Whether someone was considered morally good or bad before attending was of absolutely no matter, all were clothed, shrouded, covered up in these garments, leveling the playing field.

However, receiving the wedding garment, accepting the invitation, and finding oneself to be ‘chosen’ required something from the individual: the acknowledgement of their own need – Much like Emily, who humbly came through the doors of the church, coming to Jesus just as she was, weary and burdened by her own efforts, recognizing her filthy garments. This contrasts with Adam and Eve, who tried to cover their shame by themselves. Jesus told the Pharisees that He came for the sick, not the healthy. By this, He meant that He came to save those who recognized their need for help, knowing they couldn’t reach God on their own. The Pharisees, however, believed they were “healthy” and didn’t see themselves as helpless or sinful. They clothed themselves in their own morality and thought it was enough to make them right with God. In reality, their self-reliance made them even more spiritually sick, because they couldn’t see their need for God’s grace. (Romans 3:10, 23).

In the parable, Jesus notices a guest at the banquet who isn’t wearing the provided wedding clothes. The guest is speechless because there’s no valid excuse – no one can stand before God based on their own righteousness. Isaiah was speechless and covered his mouth when he saw himself in light of the Lord. Even Job, who was considered by the society, a ‘righteous’ man, covered his mouth and was speechless when contrasted with the almighty God. The point is, even if a person tried to clean up their own garments (their life), they would still be stained with sin. Mankind is born once, clothed in a tainted flesh and a broken, sinful heart that cannot be repaired or made presentable. What’s needed is not patching up of old clothes, or a repairing of a new heart, but an entirely new set – a new birth, new clothes, a new heart. The guest without the proper garment symbolized someone who tried to rely on their own efforts, and perhaps thought either too high or too low of themselves, (pride, instead of humility) rather than accepting the new life and righteousness that only God alone, through Christ, can provide. What becomes of this person? They are removed from the banquet, because there is only one valid way in, through the Way, the Truth, and the Life: that is Jesus.

I pictured Emily in the bathroom, clothed in filth. She had been invited to the Wedding Feast. She had accepted the invitation. Jesus stood there wearing the bright, clean clothes. He took them off of Himself and handed them to her. As she reached for them, He took her filthy clothes from off of her, and put them on Himself. She wore His clean garment that declared her “chosen.” She had put off the old self and put on the new. Paul writes about it in Ephesians. This Greek tense “to put off and put on” refers to a single past finished action. He is reminding these believers that by knowing their need and trusting Jesus, they had put off and put on, and were chosen.

I could hear Jesus say, “Emily, you have been changed, given new clothes, a new heart, an entirely new birth. You are a new self now. Don’t look back, don’t rummage in the garbage bin for what’s no longer your identity, that which serves no purpose, that which separated you from Me. Live into, lean into, look to what is now yours, and remember who I say you are: beloved, desired, valued, chosen.”

In other cultures, religions, and philosophies, people are directed to put on new behaviors to become better. Jesus says to put on the new self that He is offering, and from that entirely new being will flow new motives, new and good behaviors. The Pharisees put on behaviors, but they were not new beings. Jesus called them whitewashed tombs. They looked good on the outside, but inside they were dead. They were in need of a new birth, a new heart, clean garments. They had to first be something before they could do something. They had to shed one identity put on a new one. “For I have been crucified with Christ and it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.”

Just like in marriage, where a decision is made and a new life begins, so it is in our relationship with Christ. You don’t live as you did before, but as someone made new. Paul urges us to “be renewed”—to receive and embrace this new life, to recognize that we are chosen and clothed in Christ’s righteousness. It’s not about learning new behaviors; it’s about getting to know The One who chose and clothed us. We don’t simply learn principles, values, or systems—we learn a Person, Jesus Christ.

We become more like Christ not by mastering rules, but by deepening our relationship with Him. We are called to “put on” the new self because He put on Himself what we put off—our sin. As 2 Corinthians 5:21 says, “He became sin who knew no sin, that we might become His righteousness.” The more we grasp this truth and let it dwell in our hearts, the more our motivations change, and we are transformed from the inside out.

As Emily’s Uber faded into the night, I took a moment to look around at the scene. To the world, none of it made sense—a Thrift Market more focused on building relationships, creating a welcoming and fun environment for the neighborhood, and sharing the love of Jesus than on making a profit. We were practically giving things away. The costs of marketing barely broke even with what we earned. But none of that mattered. If God had set everything up just for Emily, for her story to be part of something bigger, revealing His glory, then that was the true purpose. Something that would matter for eternity.

At first, I was discouraged, not motivated to set up for the market. I couldn’t seem to get the church interested, unified, or wanting to be involved. But then, as the chapel filled with people, and I witnessed the divine appointment with Emily unfold before my eyes, the Lord spoke to my heart. He settled me with these words: “It’s about Me, right? And didn’t I choose you?” In that moment, my heart filled with awe. What an incredible privilege to be chosen by Him, to do even the smallest tasks for His sake, and to be seen by Him. I realized how blessed I was to be counted not among the outcasts, the sinners, the broken, the lonely.

I felt the weight of that truth. I put on my new self with its new motives—to please Him alone. All I had to do was remember that He did the opposite for me. The divine took on a human birth so that humanity could experience a divine one. I put off my old, corrupt, filthy garments and put on what is His—something new, something that grows stronger and better over time. He, who was clean, glorious, and perfect, equal with His Father, set it all aside and took on weak, suffering human nature. He wore my filthy garments so I could wear His righteousness. What incredible love.

That truth is what transforms a heart and mind from the inside out. It’s the daily application of the Gospel, speaking it to my own heart, that changes everything. I thank God for Emily—someone I may never see again—who gave me a visible reminder of everything I needed that night.