Nate Nasralla's Blog

The Big Idea: lift others up, and you’ll find yourself on top.

Ever since life in the Garden, we’ve wanted equality with God. We’ve craved top-of-ladder status. And while we’ve been busy climbing to the top, Jesus has been asking, “Whose feet will you wash today?”

“Your new backpack looks good on you,” I said as Erin hoisted a pack over her shoulder. “It’s almost as big as you.”

“It fits all my ski gear, thank you very much!” Erin swept by me and headed to our departure gate from the airport security area.

We were flying to Colorado for an extended, holiday weekend. A few friends were meeting us there to hit the slopes and celebrate Erin’s birthday. She was thrilled. While I always look forward to weekends on the mountain, birthdays are a big deal to Erin. So much so that in her world, everyone celebrates their “special day.” That’s the day of the month on which you were born, which means you get a mini-celebration 12 times a year.

Erin marched ahead of me as we navigated the chaos of traveling during a long holiday weekend. A different kind of commotion descended on the terminal as meandering families replaced the business travelers’ precise power walk. I realized I was only contributing to the disorder when I glanced up from my phone and stopped just shy of a moving walkway. I sidestepped a stroller and looked around.

“Nate, are you working right now?” Erin frowned as I looked down at my phone again.

“Nate?” She repeated.

“What?” I questioned, innocently.

“You almost took out that lady with the stroller. And I was asking if you’re hungry, but you never answered.”

“Are you working right now?” She repeated.

“No. Well, kind of,” I replied. “I’m just texting. I guess we’re getting pretty serious about this acquisition.”

Another, larger company was interested in buying the startup I’d joined as co-founder just a handful of years ago. Although we were a relatively young company, we’d developed a service that was the perfect complement to our suitor’s software. Talks of buying us had escalated quickly in the last two months.

I looked back to my last text from Brian, my co-founder. Can you fly to D.C. on Monday? Might need you there to talk about the sales process.

“Well that’s exciting, right?” Erin inquired.

“Yeah, it is. They’re pretty well known,” I said casually.

I thought about texting back for another distracted moment. I recognized I was flying out to a birthday celebration, not just a ski trip. But at the same time, birthdays come around every year. How often does an entrepreneur sell a company? This could be a once-in-a-lifetime thing!

Definitely, let me know when I need to buy a ticket, I texted back.

A critical factor to whether the acquisition moved forward was if our future parent company believed we could sell our service to their customers. I was leading our sales operation at the time, which made me fairly central to the discussion.

Naturally, the thought of me, a young twenty-something, helping to sell a startup company went straight to my head. I could see the headlines in Entrepreneur magazine. The interviews, the full-page features in my future. Boy wonder does it again.

Of course, it was possible that schedules would come together such that no trip to D.C. happened that week. I was also well aware this was a special weekend for Erin, so I decided to stuff my phone into my pocket and keep quiet. If Brian texted the meeting was on, I was certain I’d go in a heartbeat (a major personal and career milestone was at stake, how could I not?), but I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

The next morning, I woke up with a nagging thought which said I wasn’t playing my cards right. If I got the green light to fly to D.C., and I never mentioned the possibility to Erin, she’d likely feel I had hidden something from her. That, I figured, would be much worse than me actually leaving early, or me sharing plans she didn’t like but didn’t ultimately pan out.

I broached the topic while we pulled on our ski gear, hoping the news would mix into the stir of boots, gloves, and snow pants. “Hey, just a head’s up. I might have to fly out a little early,” I said as gently as I could muster.

“Excuse me?” Erin snapped up from buckling her boots. “You might have to fly out? What does that mean?”

I explained that while I wasn’t sure of the meeting schedule, I may have to join Brian in D.C. on Tuesday morning. If I was needed there, I’d have to fly out on Monday. I expected her to understand, and even feel excited for me (again, how often does one sell a company?).

“Why can’t you just say no? My birthday’s on Monday,” Erin pointed out, incredulously.

“Yeah, but we can celebrate another day,” I reasoned. In my mind, birthdays were a mile marker you could simply pick up and move around. I was failing, miserably, to see it from Erin’s point of view.

“No, Nate,” Erin said firmly. “That’s not the same. How long have you known you might need to travel?

“Since Friday. But I didn’t want you to get upset so I didn’t mention it. Like this!” I said it as if she’d just proven my point.

“Why wouldn’t I get upset? You know what birthdays mean to me. So if you leave, I’m leaving. I’ll spend my day back home.”

In the moment, my ego prevented me from truly hearing what Erin was saying. If birthdays were important to her, and she was important to me, then her birthday should have been important to me too.

She was making a wholly reasonable request – that I’d put her interests above my own for one day of the year – but I was deaf to it. All I heard was my imaginary phone ringing with journalists requesting interviews from the hottest entrepreneur around.

Erin turned away and pulled her goggles on. They started to fog with the steam of hot tears sliding down her cheeks, and I could hear her sniffle as we shuffled toward the door. In less than two minutes, I’d gone from a caring boyfriend planning a memorable birthday, to a conceited beau prioritizing his business.

That’s the issue with climbing the proverbial ladder. In the short-term, you feel you’re getting ahead. Everyone seems to be looking up at you. The reality, however, is they’re not looking up at you. You’re looking down on them. As we try to lift ourselves up we only push others down, and nobody likes to feel belittled.

Whether it’s your birthday or just a regular weekday, nobody responds to the people who quash their hopes and needs. So ultimately, those who try to get ahead will find they’re all alone, with nobody to give them a hand up when they need it most.

At first, I just wanted Erin’s tears to stop. I wasn’t a monster, so I couldn’t keep climbing my ladder if she was weeping down below. And truthfully, I didn’t want to feel incompetent. What kind of self-respecting, loving person is okay with making their significant other cry? In other words, I was still concerned with myself, never seeing Erin as my priority.

It took me some time, but as we sat in the lodge eating our lunch, my thick head finally grasped what was at stake. I’d come to a critical turning point; whether I stayed or left would be a signpost for Erin, signaling which direction I wanted our relationship to head. Would I place Erin above my own ambition? Or would I get ahead at all costs?

I slid down the bench of our lunch table and whispered, “Erin, look, I’m really sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Well I was thinking, but only about me. I won’t leave even if the meeting happens.”

“You mean that?” Erin tested me.

“Yeah, I really do. And I think you’re going to like what I have planned for your birthday.”

Ultimately, the meeting did happen and Brian ended up handling the conversation in D.C. for me. I never got my seat at the acquisition table, let alone news interviews, but I came out on top. Erin and I snowshoed to the peak of a Colorado mountain and now, she knows she comes first in my life.

In Jesus’ era, the Jews hoped and prayed for a liberator. The “Messiah,” the anointed one, was supposed to deliver them from Roman rule. Visions of sweeping military defeat and a hero’s cape flowing in the wind filled children’s dreams at night. But when Jesus appeared on the scene, he didn’t fit the vision. He didn’t seem like a liberator. He seemed lame, and far too tame.

Instead of stomping on the Romans with military strength, Jesus strolled in, “humble, and mounted on a donkey” (Matthew 21:5). Instead of elevating himself over Caesar as a domineering king, he described himself as “gentle and lowly in heart.” (Matthew 11:29). He never assumed the Roman throne and he was born in a manger (the modern, urban equivalent of being born in a bus shelter or alleyway).

This wasn’t because Jesus was powerless. In fact, it’s precisely because he possessed supernatural strength that he was able to embody true humility.

Jesus was the only person throughout history who could have had his way at any moment. With a spoken word or flick of the wrist, Jesus could have indulged his desires – his fully human desires. Even when Satan came to him after 40 days and nights of fasting and said, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread,” (Matthew 4:3) Jesus never used his power to alleviate his own suffering or address his own needs.

Instead, Jesus knew he’d been sent to serve, and to lift up humanity through brutal sacrifice. He told his disciples exactly this, too. “[T]he Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” (Matthew 20:28)

Jesus served in countless ways that seemed strange and totally counter-cultural. For one example, I run a lot, so my feet can get pretty sweaty. I’ve lost toenails and I’ve grown warts. Despite all this, my feet are lovely and sanitary compared to the downright-disgusting feet of our ancient relatives. Cuticle scissors and antifungal hadn’t been invented, and people walked scores of miles in dirt, dust and open-toed sandals. Nevertheless, Jesus assumed one of the nastiest jobs a servant could be assigned – washing feet: (John 13:1-17)

When he had finished washing their feet, he put on his clothes and returned to his place. “Do you understand what I have done for you?” he asked them. “You call me ‘Teacher’ and ‘Lord,’ and rightly so, for that is what I am. Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet.  I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you. Very truly I tell you, no servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him. Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them.

This sequence of events is just incredible. Consider it for a moment. The all-powerful creator, who owes us nothing, sends his son to earth. Jesus doesn’t only walk the earth as part of the divine Godhead. He shares in the worst of our humanity. Extreme hunger, filthy servitude, and crushing sorrow mark his life. In all this, he does more than preach at us. He cleans our feet, then suffers for us. He assumes the lowest, most humiliating form of death possible.

And wouldn’t you know it? As he lowered himself, he raised up humanity. He bore the punishment we deserved, freeing us. To revisit Paul’s writing on the topic, paradoxically, he says Jesus’ humiliating death actually made him greatest of all. While reinforcing Jesus, “…made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness,” Paul continues to say:

And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death — even death on a cross! Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. (Philippians 2:6-9)

In his final act, Jesus finds himself on top after lifting others up.

It’s a definitive example that cuts against our oldest, deepest desires to get ahead. Ever since life in the Garden, we’ve wanted equality with God. We’ve craved top-of-ladder and cover-of-magazine status. And yet, while we’ve been busy climbing to the top, Jesus has really been asking, “Whose feet will you wash today?”

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The Big Idea: little inconveniences create the biggest frustrations.

“Life’s pressures may produce character, but the little frustrations test how solid that character truly is. When we’re pricked – not pressed – we discover just how mature we’ve become.”

You have a junk drawer in your house, right? A drawer that accumulates all kinds of rubber bands, charging cables, scraps of paper?

Most people do, but I can’t tolerate mess. Instead, I created a junk drawer for my weeks – Sundays. It’s a bad habit. I’ve tried to kick it, but I typically save a whole list of tasks for the very day I should reserve for church and family.

Inevitably, I wake up on Sundays trying to write books, ride bikes, knock out house projects, and get a head-start on work, all while spending “quality” time with my wife. Basically, I cram a week of to-do’s into the last day of the week and expect it all to fit.

It’s not that I’m a procrastinator. Rather, I’m only as content as the projects I accomplish, and I overestimate my ability to complete them in a reasonable amount of time. As those two factors coalesce, I frantically shuffle around the house trying to make the impossible work out, while venting my frustration when I can’t.

I thought I could change this a few Sundays ago. I was in the middle of training for an Ironman, which is a triathlon that demands a great deal focus on performance and long workouts. Yet, I asked Erin if she’d like to ride bikes together. Our last ride ended in tears, and I wanted to make it up to her. Long story short, I wanted to ride fast on heavily-trafficked roads, while Erin preferred a leisurely pace on the bike trails, and compromise wasn’t how I handled it.

“We can take our time, riding through the rich neighborhoods,” I enticed her. It’s one of our hobbies; we cruise by mansions lining nearby golf courses, musing about which features we’ll build into our one-day dream home. I wanted to show her that despite my training schedule, this ride would be different.

“You know we don’t ride at the same pace, right?” Erin tested me. “And I don’t like busy roads?”

“Yes, yes,” I confirmed.

“And you’re fine sticking with me on side streets?”

“Yep.”

“Even though you’re training?” She pressed.

“Yes! C’mon. It’ll be fun,” I said.

Riding with Erin brings back sweet memories of our early days. In addition to running by and swimming in Lake Michigan, riding bikes was one of our first dates. I guess you could say spandex brought us together. I have to admit, however, nostalgia wasn’t my only motive that morning. I was feeling tempted to multi-task. I figured riding together meant checking “quality time” off my to-do list, alongside my daily training. What’s better than the smell of efficiency in the morning?

“You really think we can ride and get to church on time?” Erin said once more with a note of skepticism.

“Yeah, no problem.”

“And you know we have to get there early, right? We’re signed up to serve today,” she reminded me.

“We’ll be fine if we leave now.” Truthfully, she had me on that one. I hadn’t forgotten, but I didn’t factor it into my plan. Arriving on-time wasn’t on my list of priorities.

“Alright,” Erin smiled. “You get the bikes ready, I’ll go change.”

Ten minutes later, we were ready to roll. We don’t have a keypad for our garage door, so after Erin wheeled her bike outside, I pressed the button and ran toward her. I ducked the door as it closed behind me and yelled, “Ready!”

“You grabbed a house key, right?” Erin inquired.

“I thought you were going to?” That’s the line I use when something crossed my mind, but I assumed Erin, who’s far more planful than I, probably had it covered.

“I didn’t, but that’s fine. We can use our spare,” she suggested, referring to a small key hidden in our backyard.

I knew I should have put that key back.

I kicked myself, realizing that was the exact thought I’d had yesterday, after letting myself into the house with our spare key.

“We can’t, actually. I used it yesterday. You were out shopping when I got back from my ride,” I shrugged.

“So, we’re locked out?”

“Maybe, but let’s just ride,” I directed. First things were first in my mind. We could deal with unlocking our doors afterward. While it’d definitely mean arriving late to church, it wasn’t my priority.

“Nate, no. If we can’t get inside, we need to call someone.”

I drew a deep breath. “Well, let me just check the back door and windows. Maybe we left one unlocked.”

I knew very well I’d locked them but I wasn’t willing to negotiate my plan for the day. I reappeared in the driveway two minutes later, attempting to convince Erin we should stay on schedule, despite officially being locked out. “I can call someone while we ride,” I offered.

“How?” She wasn’t convinced.

“We’ll ride slow. I’ll google a locksmith on my phone as we go.”

I grew restless. I could sense my finely-arranged morning slipping through my fingers. Like a train conductor wanting to hit each station at just the right time, I knew each minute spent standing on the driveway meant one less riding. That, in turn, would domino my agenda, offsetting the time I’d allotted for my other projects.

“What if you need to sign something? Locksmiths can’t just open up a house without the owner there,” Erin reasoned. “Call someone first, and we’ll see when they can get here.”

The third locksmith I tried answered his phone, and said he’d be at our house in 20 minutes. This really sucks, but 20 minutes isn’t terrible, I thought. I hung up and started re-assigning projects to different time slots in my mind. If I could squeeze my timetable by a few minutes here and there, I’d still achieve maximum efficiency.

Have you ever seen someone catch the speed wobbles? Whether it’s a skateboard, bike, or motorcycle, once a small pebble or obstacle starts the wobbles, they grow in intensity and oscillate the rider farther and farther to each side until eventually, the rider crashes. While I wasn’t on my bike, I got the wobbles. One small setback, locked doors, threw me off course and I never recovered. 

After the agreed-upon 20 minutes came and went and there was no locksmith in sight, the wobbles worsened. “Where’s this guy at?” I asked incredulously, sitting in my spandex and tapping my bike cleats on our front porch.

“Did he stop for a four-course breakfast or something?”

Erin didn’t indulge me. She let me sulk because sometimes, trying to blow out a fire only stokes the flames.

“Do you tip locksmiths?” I continued my rant. “I hope you do, just so I can decide to not give him a tip for showing up late.”

Eventually, Erin tried to console me. “Look at it this way. Now we get to just hang out and enjoy each other’s company.”

It was nice a thing to say, but rather than enjoy what I had left – time with my wife – I could only whine about what had been taken from me. Worse, as I considered how frustrated I felt, the fact I felt frustrated really frustrated me. It was a nasty spiral.

I continued tapping my foot as I tried to pull out of my tailspin. While I generally relish the experiences that most find insufferable – slogging through the Amazon jungle, gritting out 100-mile bike rides – one little speedbump had completely knocked me off center. I’ve endured some pretty unforgiving conditions, but a 45-minute delay? Forget about it. I was as upset as a toddler being told ice cream isn’t an actual meal.

I wish I could say that changed. That I adjusted my attitude and spent the rest of the day in quality time with Erin. But after the locksmith came and went, I stewed over how my master plan had been foiled. It wasn’t until I crawled into bed at night that I felt sorry. I’d subjected Erin to my sour mood, so I apologized to her. When I did, she was quick to articulate what I was slow to realize.

With equal parts laugh and groan she said, “You’re really good at staying calm when life is intense, but you’re really bad when little stuff throws you off.” Then, she shared what I really needed to hear. “Just remember when we have kids, you can’t get frustrated when days don’t go your way anymore.”

Ouch. The hardest part about hearing those words was Erin was absolutely right. I can withstand life’s serious setbacks, but I sweat the small stuff. Which is an issue, because life’s pressures may produce character but little frustrations test just how solid that character truly is. When we’re pricked – not pressed – we discover how mature we’ve become.

Forgetting our house keys opened my eyes to see I wasn’t as mature as I thought. At my core, I prioritized myself. My time, my goals, my ambition. These things came first in my mind, so when they were second in reality, I whined about it. That needed to change because newborns don’t operate by their parents’ plans, and as it turned out, Erin was already ready for that. She’d had a few years of practice caring for a husband who could act like one hairy, oversized toddler.

In the opening words of James’ letter to the tribes of Israel, he writes, “Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.” (James 1:2-3) Steadfastness is significant to James because he says with enough time, it’s the virtue which creates “perfect and complete” followers of Christ. In other words, and to use a gran cliché, he says time and pressure form perfect diamonds.

Although steep, it makes sense perfection is James’ standard. Most scholars agree he was Jesus’ brother, and his writing mirrors the famed Sermon on The Mount in which Jesus says, “You therefore must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” (Matthew 5:48) “Therefore” is preceded in the sermon by a long list of imperatives concerning anger, lust, divorce, integrity, revenge, love, and a description of the characteristics God blesses. James describes that blessing a few sentences later when he writes, “Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him.” (James 1:12)

Ultimately, James is pointing out there’s a specific end goal behind us remaining steadfast and growing in character. This idea of enduring for a purpose is repeated time and time again by the Bible’s authors. Paul, for example, asks the Corinthians, “Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it.” (1 Corinthians 9:24)

This is serious business. Our calling as followers of Christ is one of great weight. The standard to which Jesus, James, Paul, and God himself hold us is perfection, attaining a crown, and the first-place prize. It’s a solemn charge which, without doubt, will require us to struggle.

Fortunately, we all have the capacity to sustain a great deal of pain. It just comes down to the purpose behind the pain. But in today’s digital and consumer age, pain stands in stark contrast to a far more familiar experience – inconvenience. It’s why first-world problems are funny; they’re common and relatable. Yet, far too frequently, the root of inconvenience is not enduring for an eternal prize or crown of life. It’s selfishness. Different from “trials of many kinds” which accompany greater purpose, life’s little hassles don’t always have much meaning. Sometimes, our plans are blown off course by nothing more than locked doors, and selfishly, how could there be any purpose in things not going our way?

This means trivial encounters are often an accurate measuring stick for how we’ve progressed in our calling to Christ-like perfection. When we live for ourselves, our threshold for feeling frustrated is dramatically reduced. Or in the words of Henry Ward Beecher, “No man is more cheated than the selfish man.” An oversized ego magnifies small setbacks into personal attacks, which quickly turns mild inconveniences into the most severe frustrations.

Looking back, a set of locked doors opened my eyes to see just how selfishly I view my time, and how that needed to change before our first child. While I still wobble more than I’d like, I’m working on seeing life’s little speedbumps as a chance to slow down and double-check what I’m living for – God’s call to perfection, or my own purposes.

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The Big Idea: the simple things deserve the loudest praise.

“Ultimately, Mike turned a totally ordinary experience into entertainment. He didn’t mind seeming a little strange at first, and for that, he brought us to our feet in praise and appreciation. Mike did his everyday job so excellently and creatively, we couldn’t help but rise to recognize him.”

Have you ever seen the movie Groundhog Day, with Bill Murray? Murray plays a weatherman named Phil who’s caught in some type of time loop. He relives the exact same day, every day. At first, Phil is cynical, frustrated, and even tries to escape the routine by driving off a cliff. By the end of the movie, he uses the repetition and his knowledge of the day’s events for good. He infuses new energy into the weather report he’s delivered dozens of times. He focuses on serving others, and finally, Phil finds love.

My life isn’t too different from Phil’s. Most of my time is spent doing ordinary, everyday things like eating cereal and staying home on a Saturday when plans fall through. This isn’t just my subjective experience, either.

Scientifically speaking, our lives are far less interesting than we, or our social media feeds, like to admit.

Did you know 50% percent of English communication uses just 100 words? Words like “the,” “of,” “this,” and “that” make up most of our conversations. Even that one friend who always seems to be at parties, concerts, and taking vacations is more boring than you realize. A recent study found all people pick a group 25 familiar locations – our house, office, gym, restaurant – and visit them over, and over, and over again. To put a fine point on this, the Bureau of Labor Statistics found the average working professional spends 21 of 24 hours each day either sleeping, eating, working, or watching TV.

So then, our lives are comprised by uninspiring routine, and I think we can all agree that uninspiring tasks are the most difficult to invest our full effort and energy into.

Consequently, it seems the people who live out the monotonous parts of their lives really, really well deserve the loudest praise. They’re living the majority of their hours with a very high degree of excellence. That’s something that deserve as much (if not more) glory than the news-worthy, singular moments of success we prefer to idolize.

I settled into seat 10C, my preferred seat of choice on my last 100 flights. I popped in headphones as I waited for the rest of the passengers to board. A lady in bright pink lipstick sat to my right and smacked her gum, while a “bro” sat across the aisle to my left and recounted his epic weekend to another “bro” over the phone.

At this point in my career, I can recite the airlines’ pre-flight speech word for word. I can even insert appropriately-timed pauses to perform demonstrations for the oxygen mask and life preserver. Knowing when the speech starts and stops tells me how much time I have with my laptop.

I turned down the volume in my headphones and tuned into the safety briefing. I began reciting the familiar words as the speaker sounded overhead. At first, I heard what I expected to hear. But then, as I started listening with my ears instead of my memory, I noticed this speech sounded very unfamiliar.

In fact, it sounded horribly wrong. “Ladies and gentle... just right turn attention here! I mean, to front of the cabin for a seatcard back pocket and 'monstration!”

I cringed. I stared at my feet to give our flight attendant some privacy. I felt bad for the guy. Clearly, he was new, and trying his best. He was probably pretty nervous to be giving the big speech during his first weeks on the job. It’s awkward to screw up any type of public speaking, but butchering a pre-scripted, repetitious speech in front of 186 passengers is another type of embarrassing.

I stole a quick glance at the passengers next me. Everyone else had the same idea. They were inspecting their shoes, fixing their seatbelt, doing anything to avoid looking at the front of the plane. Then, we all heard something surprising – beatboxing.

The flight attendant bust into a lyrically-sound, audibly-pleasing rendition of the FAA-mandated script. He flew through the briefing with crisp and confident rhymes. He wove clever puns into the standard safety information, and he cruised right past the script to finish with, "Mike's on the beat, so buckle yo seat, we 'bout to get it in the air, but don't get it twisted, this flight is rare."

The attendant, apparently named Mike, dropped his mic, threw his hands into the air, and leaned his head back. He let out a victorious, "Ahh," and the plane went nuts. Clapping, whistling, cheering. Everyone gave it up for Mike. He’d just turned a mundane part of our week into something amusing. He converted a group of annoyed passengers into a captive audience. Even the bro to my left was using his phone to record the moment. 

Mike gifted laughter to parents of small children dreading their flight. He offered relief to business travelers pushing through their everyday grind. He inspired his attendants to smile and serve with joy.

Ultimately, Mike turned a totally ordinary experience into entertainment. He didn’t mind seeming a little strange at first, and for that, he brought us to our feet in praise and appreciation. Mike did his everyday job so excellently and creatively, we couldn’t help but rise to recognize him.

Jesus spent nearly 30 years living out the everyday routines we’re all familiar with. The Gospels pretty much skip from his birth to the start of his ministry, so I suppose his in-between years weren’t too different from ours. If each of the four Gospel authors felt they could gloss over a few decades, in all likelihood, Jesus’ weeks consisted of normal stuff like studying scripture, helping his father in the shop, and maybe cracking a few jokes by a campfire.

That’s an odd thought, isn’t it? Jesus joking around and just being, well, human? Savior-of-the-world comes to earth, kills time, and laughs with family and friends. That’s hard to wrap my mind around, but it’s reality. God becoming fully human is among the most distinctive tenants of the Gospel; no other God has claimed to live like we do (let alone bled, hungered, or thirsted like we do).

That’s why I think The Message’s translation of John 1:14 gets it right when it says, “The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood.” Jesus didn’t just observe our lives from afar, looking down from the clouds. His life wasn’t just a highlight reel of miracles and shaping history, either. He worked, walked, and waved hello to his neighbors, like we do.

The apostle Paul knew that in both these dull moments and the divine instances alike, Jesus’ life was always focused on doing his Father’s will. He had this is mind when he wrote the Corinthian church to say, “So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.” ( 1 Corinthians 10:31 )

This would have been a very strange thing to say to Paul’s contemporaries, you see. Paul lived in an era of religious role models only wanted to appear, not actually be, good. They paraded their charitable giving in the streets. They stood front and center in the synagogue to pray. They invested their best if others watched. They seemed holy, but really, they had no concern for the condition of their hearts. Only their reputations.

Jesus, by contrast, was only concerned with God’s reputation – God’s glory. It’s how he lived every moment of every week, and Paul holds this as the standard in his letter. God’s glory is the goal of living, without any room for negotiation. Paul chooses the most basic tasks of life (eating and drinking) to leave us no say in the matter. Simply put, there’s never a time to not live for God’s glory.

This is a very difficult thing, and that’s probably understating it.

Jesus-like excellence is exhausting. It goes against everything I desire. I’d rather serve as CEO of a Fortune 500 company than clean airline seats and repeat the same safety speech over and over again. However, according to Paul, these roles hold equal dignity if we use every moment on the job to make much of God’s name. In this sense, Paul says excellence isn’t measured by status or success. It’s not about being the best, only my best, to increase God’s glory.

Ultimately, simple things done with excellence will cause God to one day say, “Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much.” ( Matthew 25:23 )

So we may see groundhog-day routines as tiresome, and good reason to take shortcuts, but humble moments give us an opportunity to do our job well. And when we do, we might not hear a plane full of people clapping, but our Heavenly Father who sits on a throne far higher than any airplane will be cheering us on.

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The Big Idea: the more we consume, the less satisfied we feel.

“Jesus pointed out that a poverty of possessions removed the possibility we’d look to stuff to satisfy us. Without glimmering treasure blinding us from God’s invitation, we’ll find a full life in his kingdom.”  

At the start of the 20th century, corporate executives discovered a new approach to kickstarting our economy – consumption.

Wartime production pulled our economy out of steep stagnations and depressions in the 20’s and 40’s, but after military demand for supplies declined, entire industries needed new buyers. Buyers create demand, which sustains production, increases employment, grows wages, and increases spending power. It’s a prosperous cycle.

A new type of working professional was created to influence millions to spend billions. “Admen,” the nickname for advertisers in the male-dominated industry, were paid to ensure shoppers shelled out top dollar for the latest and greatest consumer products. At the outset, they appealed to Americans’ sense of nobility. Living as a middle-class consumer became a patriotic duty. They were doing their part to support the American way of life.

Admen conditioned people to associate unending spending with good morals, not bad banking. Simon Patten , who was an economist at the Wharton School of Business in the early 1900’s, put it like this:

I tell my students to spend all they have and borrow more and spend that… It is no evidence of loose morality when a stenographer, earning eight or ten dollars a week, appears dressed in clothing that takes nearly all of her earnings to buy. It is a sign of her growing moral development.

In other words, if you’re truly an ambitious and upright person, it should be revealed materially. Your appearance is what convinces employers of your honesty, and your character should be displayed by your clothes.

Eventually, admen realized they could really kick spending into overdrive if they shifted this virtuous paradigm into a “needs” economy. Instead of simple wants, products became must-haves and fundamental human needs. As federal programs eased access to credit and offered families the chance to own a home, Admen created internal, emotional bonds with buyers to sell more appliances and housewares.

For example, they stopped selling fertilizer as something that turns brown patches of grass into a uniformly green lawn. Admen branded fertilizer as the ticket to neighborly acceptance. A brown lawn tells neighbors you’re an incompetent, lazy slob. A green lawn signals you’re a capable, pleasing fellow. Social acceptance is an internal need, while a green lawn is an external want.

So why the history lesson?

Well, things haven’t gotten better. Modern technologies like ride-sharing platforms were supposed to reduce our production, decrease our negative impact on the environment, and help us live with less. However, consumption has only increased.

What’s more, you’re likely beginning to think (myself included in this), “Oh c’mon, what’s the big deal? I’m not hurting anyone, right?” This is cause for concern because it shows we’ve already assumed and internalized a dangerous pattern of thinking.

The airport loudspeaker cut through the music playing in my headphones. “Sorry folks, we need y’all to sit back down. We’ve discovered some mechanical issues with the aircraft. We’re not sure when our departure time will be, but we’ll keep you updated.”

I knew the drill. I boarded 63 flights in the six-month stretch prior to this trip, so I’d heard that ominous announcement a few times before. I hadn’t heard it in the Dallas airport however, so I guess it was a first of sorts.

My priority status meant I lined up to board first. While I stood in line, someone pounced on my gate-side seat. It was one of the good ones with an outlet and a window, too. I collected my duffel and shuffled past the throng of roller-bags near the gate. I looked for a new place to set up camp. Hopefully I’d only be there a few more minutes, but who knew? “Mechanical” isn’t the word you want to hear when discussing delayed flights.

I found a pair of vacant seats a few rows away. I settled into a black pleather chair and felt an unpleasant warmth spread across my back. A nervous flier had likely sat there. I leaned forward from the seatback and grabbed my phone to text a friend, Jeff.

“Dude,” I tapped out a quick message. “I might be landing in Denver later than planned...”

Jeff and his fiancé were flying in to ski with Erin and me. My flight was supposed to land two hours before theirs, but after the gate agent announced, “We’re looking into other aircraft to get everyone to their final destinations safely,” I was just hoping to get home that same day.

“Hey, can I join you?”

I looked up from my phone to see who was speaking. I wasn’t expecting to see what I saw – a man in his late thirties wearing a sheepish grin and an equally goofy pair of snow pants. He pointed to my duffel bag, which occupied the chair next to me, implying he wanted me to move it for him.

His bib-style snow pants rose over his shoulders and clipped in the front. They had extra padding that bunched around his knees and waist, like the kind parents buy for toddlers learning to ski. I was confused as to why someone would wear snow pants in an airport, a Texas airport of all places, before remembering I was headed home to Denver.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” I mumbled. “You’re going skiing this weekend, huh?” I asked as I moved my bag from the chair. Maybe it was his insulated overalls that had been incubating my seat.

“Yes! It’s my first time, believe it or not,” he said emphatically.

That wasn’t hard to believe at all, but I let him continue. “I’m meeting some friends. I don’t think they’ll be very happy to see me if we arrive too late, though,” he sighed.

“Yeah, I have some friends waiting on me, too,” I shared. “But your first-time, that’s exciting. Which mountain are you skiing?”

“Not sure. They say they’re going to watch the weather and we’ll go where the snow’s good. Maybe Gunnison, or something like that. Heard of it?” He asked.

“Sure, I was there a few weeks ago. That’s some ambitious skiing for your first time.”

“Wherever’s fine with me. I just can’t wait to get there,” he beamed as he kicked his cowboy boots out in front of him.

“I don’t know what you do, but I work in the oil fields. Skiing is like, really rare there. I never thought I’d go until some buddies moved and told me to visit. I’ve never seen snow, either, so I figured I might as well get used to the gear.”

He thumbed his overall straps, snapping them against his chest. I laughed. It sounded like his friends had some intense skiing in store for him, and I could only appreciate his eager naivety. He was wearing his overalls on an airplane, after all.  

“You’ll have fun,” I assured him. “It’ll be different than Texas, but you’ll have a blast.”

I looked around the gate after my new friend grew quiet. A TV mounted in the corner caught my eye. A liquor commercial featuring impressive people doing impressive things rolled along before the words, “Never Stop, Never Settle,” hung on the screen.

My first thought was to question the apparent link between liquor and extraordinary accomplishments. My next thought was born from the dichotomy of the tagline, “Never Stop, Never Settle,” and my new friend. On one hand, I’d just met a man so chock-full of delight for bunny hills and beat-up rentals he’d decided to wear his snow pants in the airport. On the other was an ad placing the ideals of incessant achievement and relentless consumption on full display.

The commercial said “more” is always the answer. Regardless of whether I feel fulfilled or hollow, the nature of the word “never” suggested that settling is to be avoided at all costs. Contentment shouldn’t be an option (and of course, if living by their mantra ever left me empty, I could just pick up a bottle of their alcohol).

Yet, the goofy grin and overalls next to me begged to differ. As I was sulking, Mr. Overalls was smiling. He was clearly the happier man between the two of us, and the only real difference between us was that he’d never skied, and I’d started at four years old. As a result, the inconvenience of a flight delay was able to put a damper on my weekend, while Mr. Overalls excitedly awaited the snow.

Honestly, I was a little jealous. I think we all need more of a Mr. Overalls approach. It’s too easy to live with a never-settle mentality. We waste too much time thinking about “if-then” scenarios. “If I could just…” or, “If I could only…” followed by some type of “then” and a false promise. “If I could just earn six-figures, then I’d spend more time with my family.”

I’m among the guiltiest offenders. Like, life-sentence guilty. Anyone who knows me knows Nate without a goal or project is Nate at his worst. I spend too many days feeling bogged down, trying to fill an unnamed void with more and more-extraordinary experiences. “If I could just…”

I don’t think this challenge is limited to over-achievers, either. Consuming more – whether it’s more experiences, products, even new relationships – is a bottomless pit that will never content us. “More” will never create the thrill of heading to the bunny slopes after working in the oil fields. But, if we trust that consumption will never equate satisfaction, we can find what will truly fulfill us.

Jesus spoke a lot about filling the holes in our hearts. He said we try to plug those holes with all kinds of stuff when we actually need a savior. In fact, he said we’d truly know where our heart’s affections lie by how much we consume. He said, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth… But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:19-21) In other words, while Admen may say our clothes determine our character, Jesus said our possessions reveal our priorities.

Jesus totally turned the world’s link between consumption and contentment on its head. He went so far as to say, “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” (Luke 6:20) So Jesus didn’t just say blessed are you who have “enough,” or you who “settle” (let alone you who never settle).

He pointed out that a poverty of possessions removed the possibility we’d look to stuff to satisfy us. Without glimmering treasure blinding us from God’s invitation, he said we could find a full life in his kingdom.

Jesus knew this is easier said than done, by the way. And on another occasion, he revealed just how strong the draw of treasure and wealth and possessions actually is. So strong, in fact, that Jesus said it’s nearly impossible for a rich man to find God’s kingdom.

As a rich man approached Jesus, he asked him, “Teacher, what good deed must I do to have eternal life?” After Jesus told him to keep God’s commandments, and the rich man said he already had, Jesus replied, “If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.” Then, the Bible says:

When the young man heard this he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions. And Jesus said to his disciples, “Truly, I say to you, only with difficulty will a rich person enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God. (Matthew 19:16-24)

Believe it or not, the man’s riches weren’t the central issue here. Instead, Jesus revealed that the man’s “great possessions” had crowded his heart. He hadn’t left any room for God. His good deeds were just an attempt to have it all. He wanted to find eternal life later and hang onto his treasure now.

Deep down, the rich man knew that approach was falling short. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have asked Jesus his question in the first place.

Jesus’ response said that finding eternal life, which ultimately satisfies the longings of our hearts, only happens when we’ve made room for God. Not only that, but we must place God first. Finding his kingdom is not as simple as following commands. It’s a matter of our priorities, and had the rich man been willing to sell his possessions, he would have found the kingdom. He would have valued God over stuff.

Jesus wasn’t the only one to touch on this topic. Generation after generation, the writers of the Bible discovered that as long as we have God, we have it all. The writer of Hebrews encouraged us, “…be content with what you have, because God has said, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.” (Hebrews 13:5)

Even Solomon, the one guy in history who (literally) had it all, and I mean everything from riches to land to power and wisdom, said, “He who loves money will not be satisfied with money, nor he who loves wealth with his income.” (Ecclesiastes 5:10) Solomon knew “if-then” statements never work out. “If I could just get a little more, then I’d be happy…” is deceiving.

In the end, stuff never lasts, and more never satisfies. Even the thrill of throwing on overalls and cruising down the mountain for the first time fades away. So, the question we’re left with is this. Will we buy culture’s narrative of consumption, or will we make room for Jesus to finally and wholly fill us?

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The Big Idea: small choices can bring big consequences.

“Even when we think one wrong move will snowball into an avalanche, God’s working behind the scenes to weave our fears and failures into something beautiful. With his design and in time, even something as ugly as death can result in a full, rich life.”  

My wife and I recently escaped an avalanche that raced down the Rockies and onto the Colorado Interstate, swallowing up cars commuting back to Denver.

Okay, “escaped” is a little dramatic, but had we started our drive just fifteen minutes earlier, we would have been engulfed by a massive pile of snow.

An unbelievable 24 inches of powder fell during the prior two days, which made for the perfect ski (and avalanche) conditions. We didn’t want to squander perfect fields of champagne powder, so we chose to forgo breakfast and hit the slopes early.

That tiny choice ultimately had an enormous impact on the rest of our day. Had we left just a short while later, we’d have been swamped by snow. Now, I can’t say for certain that our day turned out better than those who were trapped by the snow. Perhaps the avalanche was someone’s snowy savior, preventing them from sliding off a cliff later on the drive.

But, what I think we can all say for sure, is that small choices can carry big consequences. Even routine, run-of-the-mill decisions can snowball into much more significant outcomes.

This is really quite alarming if you consider the implications of it. It’s plain to see that something major like signing a mortgage or proposing marriage will alter the course of your life. On the other hand, nobody thinks twice about lingering over a bowl of cereal. And, how could we? We couldn’t function like that. Just imagine the mental energy required to get into the office on a Tuesday.

Life is simpler, and easier, when small decisions feel contained.

However, fortunately or unfortunately, small decisions don’t always stay in their silos. There’s an interesting (and scary) branch of mathematics called Chaos Theory that unpacks this. Chaos Theory states a tiny change in the initial conditions of a certain system can result in massive differences later on, and over time. You may have heard this called the “Butterfly Effect.” That’s the name a mathematician, Edward Lorenz, coined after studying a real-world example of how chaos affects our lives.

Lorenz’s butterfly-based example discusses weather, and how “a butterfly flaps its wings in China and sets off a tornado in Texas. Small events compound and irreversibly alter the future of the universe… [he then refers to a line chart] a tiny fluctuation of 0.00001 makes an enormous difference in the behavior and state of the system 50 generations later.” (See here)

When applied to your life and mine, that’s really a remarkable concept. We like to believe our lives are comprised by limited and linear cause-effect relationships. In other words, life is easy if one decision produces one direct and apparent outcome. However, our lives are far more dynamic than this. An immeasurable number of variables coalesce to influence the trajectory of our lives, and there’s a multiplicative effect when you consider we don’t live on an island. Our lives affect others around us, too.

I tucked a sketchbook into my backpack and slipped out from behind my desk. My co-workers were starting to talk about options for lunch, but I already had plans, and I preferred to leave the office without explaining them.

You see, I’d grown weary of my job as a consultant. I was working for a reputable, well-paying firm at the time, but I didn’t feel fulfilled. I wasn’t interested in working for high-flying law firms, or the prestige and security that a consulting career afforded me. Instead, I wanted to watch an idea sprout into a full-fledged company. I wanted to build a startup.

I began setting up lunch and late-night meetings with other entrepreneurs around Chicago, and I kept the beginnings of a company in my sketchbook – a name, a logo, concept drawings and a revenue model. I was trying to track down someone to go into business with.

I figured my co-workers would second-guess my loyalty (and my sanity) if they discovered I had been ducking team outings to attend meetings with people I barely knew, to pursue an idea that, statistically speaking, was likely to crash and burn. So, I crept to the elevator uninterrupted, and I charged out of our skyscraper’s grand foyer to where my bike was waiting for me.

I had waited until the last possible minute to leave the office so I cranked on the pedals and weaved in and out of noontime traffic. I glanced at my watch as I came to a skidding stop outside a noodles shop. I had just enough time to lock my bike and fix my hair.

I spotted who I was meeting as soon as I walked inside. Despite the lunch-time crowd, he was unmistakable. He looked just like his LinkedIn picture, and nobody else wore wood-trimmed glasses.

“Hi, I’m Brian,” he rose to shake my hand.

“I’m Nate, good to meet you, Brian,” I replied.

“So, you have an idea?” He asked as we sat down in a corner table. “How can I help?”

I explained my idea – a platform to help small nonprofits raise money – and Brian listened intently. He asked good follow-up questions, inquired about my motivations, and was genuinely curious about my background. When I was finished, he nodded, complimented my creativity, and leaned in a little closer.

“Here’s my idea,” he began.

Brian had been working in and for small nonprofits for the past decade. He knew what makes them tick, what keeps them up at night, and how they raise money. He developed a beautiful vision in my mind, drawing lines from the motivations I spoke about, to the nonprofits he knew about. He connected the platform I wanted to build, with the skills I’d acquire while creating his idea.

I ate my noodles and listened with rapt fascination. He wasn’t just talking about a hobby, or even a business. He was outlining a mission. There was an undeniable charisma and a sense of purpose behind his words.

“I have someone doing operations, and an engineer. You should meet them, too,” he suggested as I picked up our empty noodle bowls. “You know, ask them questions, see what you think.”

“Sounds great to me,” I agreed. “I’ll email you later today.”

Two weeks and two meetings later, I decided I was in. I’d dive headfirst into building Brian’s idea, and I’d give my consulting firm my two-week notice. I knew it was a weighty decision to make. I was leaving a stable salary and an established firm for a significant pay cut and an uncertain future, after all. But I didn’t think of it as a truly life-altering decision. I only saw the next day in front of me, not the years’ worth of major life milestones that would shift as a result.

Today, with the benefit of hindsight, I can say meeting Brian for that bowl of noodles was the best choice I ever made. Through it, I found a partner who shaped me as a startup co-founder, and developed me as a person, too. We’ve ridden out five years of ups and downs, and we’ve watched an idea spreads to thousands of nonprofits across hundreds of cities.

Best of all, I met my wife. I had always planned to leave the city and head west, but the business planted me right where I was able to get to know Erin. I don’t mean to gloss over the finer details here, but long story short, that role kept me in the city long enough for us to start dating and fall in love. Right before we got engaged, our company was bought, we ended up moving to Colorado, bought a house, adopted a dog, and as they say, the rest is history.

Without that bowl of noodles, I don’t think my writing would even exist. It really did put me on a totally different life path. It’s strange to think that I was just one meal away from a very different life, but maybe you can relate. Do you have a bowl-o-noodles story?

If you don’t, who knows? Maybe it’s right around the corner.

Mercifully for us, the trajectory of our lives isn’t left to random chance. There’s a divine patterning in the fabric of our lives, and it’s woven together a truly miraculous existence. It’s no less miraculous when we feel disappointed, depressed, or dejected, either. The fact is, we wouldn’t even know what it is to feel sorrow, much less joy, if our reality was built upon happenstance.

The scientific revolution was supposed to reveal why faith is obsolete. Instead, one of science’s most salient discoveries is how our world’s natural laws conspire to uphold the necessity of divine design. We’ve discovered more than two dozen parameters that must be precisely aligned for our world to sustain life. The physical and astrological conditions that allowed for our world’s beginning were so impossibly strict that the probability of us walking and talking is equivalent to you dropping a pin from the International Space Station and hitting a one-inch target on Earth’s surface.

No kidding. Every day we rise, eat cereal, and sit in traffic is so rare it’s an ordinary miracle. Nobody would accept these odds when buying a lottery ticket, so how could we bet our lives on them? What’s more, without design, Chaos Theory really does equate a stressful existence. There cannot be a loving, caring creator who orchestrates our finer details and unknowable futures. We must control all the tiny conditions and circumstances of our lives, which may result in massive consequences down the road.

In the Gospels, Jesus talks about this theory. He says God prefers to use tiny beginnings to bring about the majestic fullness of his kingdom. He equates God’s kingdom to a mustard seed, “… which is the smallest of all seeds on earth. Yet when planted, it grows and becomes the largest of all garden plants, with such big branches that the birds can perch in its shade.” (Mark 4:30-32)

A mustard seed would have been a shocking choice of imagery to an ancient, agrarian society. You see, the typical mustard seed is just 0.05 inches wide. With time and fertile soil, it produces a plant up to nine feet tall. That’s 2,160 times its original size. And once planted, it quickly germinates to produces multiple plants.

The people Jesus was speaking to would have known this, and for that reason, they would have planted mustard seeds in fields – not gardens. While a mustard seed seems inconsequential, they would have expected it to grow into a massive plant sprouting all kinds of branches and roots upwards and downwards.

In the event someone missed the meaning of the mustard-seed parallel, Jesus reinforced his message by talking about yeast. He said, “The kingdom of heaven is like leaven that a woman took and hid in three measures of flour, till it was all leavened.” (Matthew 13:33) Three measures was equivalent to 60 pounds of flour, so clearly, a small dose of yeast would result in a whole lot of bread.

Through each of these parables, Jesus was cluing us into God’s strange approach of forming big things from humble beginnings. This is an ideal Jesus embodied as, from his start in a stable to his humiliating death on the cross, he would have appeared wholly unimpressive to most people.

As a result, nobody would have expected the massive growth of the early church. Many assumed his movement would die out, and his diehards would disband. Everyone believed they’d buried someone insignificant, and rightfully so. If Jesus was truly the Messiah, the anointed one sent to save the world, how could he die? Yet, what most didn’t see until the church took root was that they’d buried a mustard seed.

For you and for me, I think this means that although small choices can yield big consequences, we don’t have to worry. There’s no need to dread chaos. Even when we think one wrong move will snowball into an avalanche, God’s working behind the scenes to weave our fears and failures into something beautiful. With his design and in time, even something as ugly as disasters or death can result in a full, rich life.

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The Big Idea: bring out the best in others to reveal the best in you.

Belle, our chocolate lab, loves praise.

She loves belly rubs, too, but she’ll do anything so long as you tell her she’s a good girl. She’ll even walk around the house picking up her toys if you tell her how proud you are. She’s not bashful about seeking your praise, either. She’ll look at you with beautiful brown eyes and a titled expression wondering, “Am I am a good girl today?”

Belle and I aren’t so different, honestly. In fact, I’m sure I crave affectionate praise more than she does. I may not wiggle my rear-end in excitement when someone says, “Good job, Nate!” but my ego is far more fragile. Belle’s self-esteem doesn’t fluctuate to the same extent that mine wavers from day to day. If she gets a walk and a treat, she feels pretty good about herself.

While it’s not surprising that my emotions are more complex than my canine companion, I don’t think I’m unique in this. I think we all live to hear the words, “Well done.” We long for the inner peace of knowing we’re enough, that we measure up in the eyes of others.

To borrow Dale Carnegie’s words, “I can look back at my own life and see where a few words of praise have sharply changed my entire future. Can't you say the same thing about your life?”

In our pursuit of praise, we typically elevate our good qualities, while shoving our negatives traits into that one junk drawer hiding all the dead batteries, coupons, and rubber bands. I ensure my co-workers see my ambition. I never disclose the moments in which it limits the time I spend with my family. This typically works out for a little while, but a self-promoting, image-managing approach to securing others’ approval never succeeds for long. We seem foolish when we’d hoped to appear wise. We look ugly when we’d hoped to look attractive.

We realized this a few year back and we did away with boasting in favor of the “humblebrag.” You know, bragging couched in veiled humility, or a fake complaint that makes declaring your awesomeness a little more palatable. The New York Times and Washington Post even featured the topic in their respective pop-culture columns in recent years.

For example, “I can’t stand flying first class. I have to sit on the plane longer than everyone before we take off.” Or, “It’s so hard being the company’s smartest employee. Everyone asks me to stay late and help them with their projects.

So, if outright boasting is ugly, the humblebrag is insincere, and our craving for adoration remains unquenched, where can we turn? Who will validate us?

While it’s counterintuitive, I believe this conversation should start from the opposite perspective, entirely. We’ll do best by first lifting up those around us. You see, by placing someone else above ourselves, we demonstrate our capacity for humility and modesty. These are far higher and more noble characteristics than pride.

Besides, if we all desire praise and we need the occasional, “You’re doing a great job,” don’t we all want to live life with the people who make us feel noticed, and valued?

Just like the sea that sits below the streams around it, increasing in power and grandeur as the earth’s rivers are drawn toward it, we also gravitate to those who lower themselves. By pointing out the best in others, you actually, by extension, reveal the best in you.

We all have a certain “ness” about us. I have a Nate-ness to me. You have a you-ness to you. Before we discover our ness, we’re impressionable. As we search for what makes us special, a sense of identity, we need someone to point us in the right direction. We need a guide who’s willing to use their words to bring out the best in us, and equip us for the journey ahead.

Personally, I was never more sensitive to the words of those around me than during my high school years. I clung to feedback from my teachers, peers, and especially the girls I liked. Naturally, I wasn’t sure who I was becoming during these years, so for better or worse, I looked to others’ input to define me.

Fortunately, this was the same time in which I met my high school baseball coach, Willie. When I met Willie, I immediately knew I wanted to be known as a person who did things the right way. I wanted to work hard and demonstrate integrity.

I’ve previously mentioned that during my freshman year, I was one of two students below five feet tall. The other guy, Dave, didn’t care for baseball, so I was the only runt trying to prove he could contribute to the team’s dream of winning a regional title.

My diminutive stature meant I couldn’t hit the ball out of the infield. I was slow rounding the bases, and I didn’t have the reach to stop hard-hit balls from squirting into the outfield. In short, I left a lot to be desired. I did have one thing going for me, however. I was tenacious. I had a fire in my belly, and I was determined to prove that I’d be more motivated than any other player (yes, just like Rudy and every classic sports movie out there).

As it turns out, that approach worked. Coach Willie knew baseball was about life, not some regional title that didn’t matter all too much anyway. Willie was in the business of training men as much as ball players.

The first day I walked onto Willie’s baseball field, he told me to straighten my hat and tuck in my shirt. He was always talking about “discipline,” and conducting ourselves with pride. We did things the right way or not at all. He didn’t tolerate shortcuts, like showing up to gameday with dirty cleats. Coach Willie had more experience than every coach in the state, so we listened to him.

When we’d drive the team bus to away games, Willie wouldn’t leave until I was sitting in the passenger’s seat. He was a scout for the San Diego Padres, so I’d listen to him talk on the phone about big-league stuff as we drove. After he’d hang up, he’d fill me in on what really happens behind the scenes in the major leagues. The combination of sitting up front and listening to the pro’s talk shop said I had a place on Willie’s team, regardless of my ability to crush doubles and chase ground balls.

When Willie looked at me sitting in the passenger seat chewing sunflower seeds, I think he saw a wide-eyed kid trying to make himself into something through sheer effort. I also think he knew that the baseball field would turn me pliable; I’d actually listen and apply the lessons he taught us. I’m sure it’s why he gave me a jersey. It certainly wasn’t my athletic prowess.

When Willie told me I was a ball player, he was really saying, “You’re enough. Come belong here.”

I appreciated that more than he knew. I couldn’t wait for the spring season my sophomore year, and when my junior year rolled around, Willie started coaching the varsity team. Playing for Willie with a varsity letter was going to be the pinnacle of my high school career. I was beyond excited, and I put in my best effort during the two-day tryouts, just as I always had.

This time, however, it wasn’t enough.

Willie called me into his office right after tryouts finished up. As I walked in, I was all smiles. I figured we were going to talk about the new uniforms, the away game schedule, or something you’d discuss with the guy who rode in the passenger seat. When Willie didn’t say anything, I started to grow concerned. Then, tears began to slip down his cheeks.

He just shook his head and whispered, “Not this year, Nate. I’m sorry. Not this year.”

I started to cry too, but I quickly choked back my sobs. I wanted Willie to know that I’d learned how to be a man. That I’d grown up and could remember to tuck in my shirt on my own.

Strangely, I was thankful for Willie’s tears. They told me that the baseball field didn’t define who I was. His sniffles confirmed that our relationship wasn’t merely transactional, that my worth wasn’t limited to my utility as a position player.

As I walked out of his office, Willie said I’d always be one of his favorite players. He told me I was becoming someone he was proud of, no matter what the roster said. You see, Willie knew that people typically turn out as we say they will. If we tell them they’re loved, they’ll act like loveable people.

Willie gave me a sense of dignity to live out, and for that, he’ll always be a giant in my memory.

Jesus was in the business of shaping lives, too. He regularly used people who looked like they’d be as much help as a short kid on a baseball field, and he made them into world-changing activists. He once told a bunch of guys on a boat, “I will make you fishers of men,” and with those few words, he gave them a higher calling. He didn’t talk to them as insignificant laborers who, I’m sure, smelled like raw fish. He turned them into students of a renowned teacher.

What’s more, Jesus didn’t just call them to become disciples and leave it at that. He let them listen into the big-league conversations in the passenger seat. He let them into all parts of his life. They witnessed the good parts, like miracles, and the truly horrible parts, like contemplating his own death in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Jesus also used his words to give a higher calling to a woman named Mary. During a time when popular culture generally viewed women as property as much as people, Jesus spoke up and honored her. As she cleaned his feet with her tears, dried them with her hair, and anointed him with perfume, everyone around Mary and Jesus chastised her. They told Mary she was wasting good perfume, and being foolish for throwing away an entire year’s wages.

Jesus could have agreed with them. He could have cast Mary aside and associated himself with the men of higher status sitting around the table. He didn’t do that, though. Instead, Jesus gave Mary a new reputation. He said she’d not only done a beautiful thing for him, he said she’d be remembered wherever stories are told. He gave her a legacy in addition to a good name.

Think about that for a second. Can you imagine how Mary must have felt as she approached a renowned teacher, unprompted, in a setting where she was viewed as less-than? She must have been terrified, shaking as she wept on his feet.

Now, can you envision how she would have felt while walking out of that room? Jesus gave her dignity! He disregarded an entire cultural stigma and he changed her label from a wasteful woman to a living legend.

This is the reason the apostle Paul writes about having the same perspective as Christ. As he writes, “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves,” he’s really suggesting that hollow actions won’t cut it. He’s encouraging us to see others as valuable, and in fact, to treat them as more significant than ourselves. In the same letter, Paul points out how this seemingly upside-down spiritual principle is observed in Christ’s life:

[T]hough he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name.

This is critically important because none of us are static. We’re always progressing into more humble and heavenly versions of ourselves, or more hollow and hellish caricatures of who God designed us to be. C.S. Lewis describes this as:

…[A]ll your life long you are slowly turning… into a heavenly creature or a hellish creature: either into a creature that is in harmony with God, and with other creatures, and with itself, or else into one that is in a state of war and hatred with God, and with its fellow creatures, and with itself. To be the one kind of creature is heaven: that is, it is joy and peace and knowledge and power. To be the other means madness, horror, idiocy, rage, impotence, and eternal loneliness. Each of us at each moment is progressing to the one state of the other.

The questions we’ve arrived at, then, are how are you encouraging the people around you? Are you using your words to praise others, and to give them an admirable reputation to live out? Do people feel they’re valued and validated by you? Can they see a more noble, future version of themselves when they’re in your presence?

These questions are worth spending some time on. Our answers will ultimately reveal more about you, and me, than others.

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The Big Idea: the simple things deserve the loudest praise.

“Ultimately, Mike turned a totally ordinary experience into entertainment. He didn’t mind seeming a little strange at first, and for that, he brought us to our feet in praise and appreciation. Mike did his everyday job so excellently and creatively, we couldn’t help but rise to recognize him.”

Have you ever seen the movie Groundhog Day, with Bill Murray? Murray plays a weatherman named Phil who’s caught in some type of time loop. He relives the exact same day, every day. At first, Phil is cynical, frustrated, and even tries to escape the routine by driving off a cliff. By the end of the movie, he uses the repetition and his knowledge of the day’s events for good. He infuses new energy into the weather report he’s delivered dozens of times. He focuses on serving others, and finally, Phil finds love.

My life isn’t too different from Phil’s. Most of my time is spent doing ordinary, everyday things like eating cereal and staying home on a Saturday when plans fall through. This isn’t just my subjective experience, either.

Scientifically speaking, our lives are far less interesting than we, or our social media feeds, like to admit.

Did you know 50% percent of English communication uses just 100 words? Words like “the,” “of,” “this,” and “that” make up most of our conversations. Even that one friend who always seems to be at parties, concerts, and taking vacations is more boring than you realize. A recent study found all people pick a group 25 familiar locations – our house, office, gym, restaurant – and visit them over, and over, and over again. To put a fine point on this, the Bureau of Labor Statistics found the average working professional spends 21 of 24 hours each day either sleeping, eating, working, or watching TV.

So then, our lives are comprised by uninspiring routine, and I think we can all agree that uninspiring tasks are the most difficult to invest our full effort and energy into.

Consequently, it seems the people who live out the monotonous parts of their lives really, really well deserve the loudest praise. They’re living the majority of their hours with a very high degree of excellence. That’s something that deserve as much (if not more) glory than the news-worthy, singular moments of success we prefer to idolize.

I settled into seat 10C, my preferred seat of choice on my last 100 flights. I popped in headphones as I waited for the rest of the passengers to board. A lady in bright pink lipstick sat to my right and smacked her gum, while a “bro” sat across the aisle to my left and recounted his epic weekend to another “bro” over the phone.

At this point in my career, I can recite the airlines’ pre-flight speech word for word. I can even insert appropriately-timed pauses to perform demonstrations for the oxygen mask and life preserver. Knowing when the speech starts and stops tells me how much time I have with my laptop.

I turned down the volume in my headphones and tuned into the safety briefing. I began reciting the familiar words as the speaker sounded overhead. At first, I heard what I expected to hear. But then, as I started listening with my ears instead of my memory, I noticed this speech sounded very unfamiliar.

In fact, it sounded horribly wrong. “Ladies and gentle... just right turn attention here! I mean, to front of the cabin for a seatcard back pocket and 'monstration!”

I cringed. I stared at my feet to give our flight attendant some privacy. I felt bad for the guy. Clearly, he was new, and trying his best. He was probably pretty nervous to be giving the big speech during his first weeks on the job. It’s awkward to screw up any type of public speaking, but butchering a pre-scripted, repetitious speech in front of 186 passengers is another type of embarrassing.

I stole a quick glance at the passengers next me. Everyone else had the same idea. They were inspecting their shoes, fixing their seatbelt, doing anything to avoid looking at the front of the plane. Then, we all heard something surprising – beatboxing.

The flight attendant bust into a lyrically-sound, audibly-pleasing rendition of the FAA-mandated script. He flew through the briefing with crisp and confident rhymes. He wove clever puns into the standard safety information, and he cruised right past the script to finish with, "Mike's on the beat, so buckle yo seat, we 'bout to get it in the air, but don't get it twisted, this flight is rare."

The attendant, apparently named Mike, dropped his mic, threw his hands into the air, and leaned his head back. He let out a victorious, "Ahh," and the plane went nuts. Clapping, whistling, cheering. Everyone gave it up for Mike. He’d just turned a mundane part of our week into something amusing. He converted a group of annoyed passengers into a captive audience. Even the bro to my left was using his phone to record the moment. 

Mike gifted laughter to parents of small children dreading their flight. He offered relief to business travelers pushing through their everyday grind. He inspired his attendants to smile and serve with joy.

Ultimately, Mike turned a totally ordinary experience into entertainment. He didn’t mind seeming a little strange at first, and for that, he brought us to our feet in praise and appreciation. Mike did his everyday job so excellently and creatively, we couldn’t help but rise to recognize him.

Jesus spent nearly 30 years living out the everyday routines we’re all familiar with. The Gospels pretty much skip from his birth to the start of his ministry, so I suppose his in-between years weren’t too different from ours. If each of the four Gospel authors felt they could gloss over a few decades, in all likelihood, Jesus’ weeks consisted of normal stuff like studying scripture, helping his father in the shop, and maybe cracking a few jokes by a campfire.

That’s an odd thought, isn’t it? Jesus joking around and just being, well, human? Savior-of-the-world comes to earth, kills time, and laughs with family and friends. That’s hard to wrap my mind around, but it’s reality. God becoming fully human is among the most distinctive tenants of the Gospel; no other God has claimed to live like we do (let alone bled, hungered, or thirsted like we do).

That’s why I think The Message’s translation of John 1:14 gets it right when it says, “The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood.” Jesus didn’t just observe our lives from afar, looking down from the clouds. His life wasn’t just a highlight reel of miracles and shaping history, either. He worked, walked, and waved hello to his neighbors, like we do.

The apostle Paul knew that in both these dull moments and the divine instances alike, Jesus’ life was always focused on doing his Father’s will. He had this is mind when he wrote the Corinthian church to say, “So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.” ( 1 Corinthians 10:31 )

This would have been a very strange thing to say to Paul’s contemporaries, you see. Paul lived in an era of religious role models only wanted to appear, not actually be, good. They paraded their charitable giving in the streets. They stood front and center in the synagogue to pray. They invested their best if others watched. They seemed holy, but really, they had no concern for the condition of their hearts. Only their reputations.

Jesus, by contrast, was only concerned with God’s reputation – God’s glory. It’s how he lived every moment of every week, and Paul holds this as the standard in his letter. God’s glory is the goal of living, without any room for negotiation. Paul chooses the most basic tasks of life (eating and drinking) to leave us no say in the matter. Simply put, there’s never a time to not live for God’s glory.

This is a very difficult thing, and that’s probably understating it.

Jesus-like excellence is exhausting. It goes against everything I desire. I’d rather serve as CEO of a Fortune 500 company than clean airline seats and repeat the same safety speech over and over again. However, according to Paul, these roles hold equal dignity if we use every moment on the job to make much of God’s name. In this sense, Paul says excellence isn’t measured by status or success. It’s not about being the best, only my best, to increase God’s glory.

Ultimately, simple things done with excellence will cause God to one day say, “Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much.” ( Matthew 25:23 )

So we may see groundhog-day routines as tiresome, and good reason to take shortcuts, but humble moments give us an opportunity to do our job well. And when we do, we might not hear a plane full of people clapping, but our Heavenly Father who sits on a throne far higher than any airplane will be cheering us on.

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The Big Idea: the more we consume, the less satisfied we feel.

“Jesus pointed out that a poverty of possessions removed the possibility we’d look to stuff to satisfy us. Without glimmering treasure blinding us from God’s invitation, we’ll find a full life in his kingdom.”  

At the start of the 20th century, corporate executives discovered a new approach to kickstarting our economy – consumption.

Wartime production pulled our economy out of steep stagnations and depressions in the 20’s and 40’s, but after military demand for supplies declined, entire industries needed new buyers. Buyers create demand, which sustains production, increases employment, grows wages, and increases spending power. It’s a prosperous cycle.

A new type of working professional was created to influence millions to spend billions. “Admen,” the nickname for advertisers in the male-dominated industry, were paid to ensure shoppers shelled out top dollar for the latest and greatest consumer products. At the outset, they appealed to Americans’ sense of nobility. Living as a middle-class consumer became a patriotic duty. They were doing their part to support the American way of life.

Admen conditioned people to associate unending spending with good morals, not bad banking. Simon Patten , who was an economist at the Wharton School of Business in the early 1900’s, put it like this:

I tell my students to spend all they have and borrow more and spend that… It is no evidence of loose morality when a stenographer, earning eight or ten dollars a week, appears dressed in clothing that takes nearly all of her earnings to buy. It is a sign of her growing moral development.

In other words, if you’re truly an ambitious and upright person, it should be revealed materially. Your appearance is what convinces employers of your honesty, and your character should be displayed by your clothes.

Eventually, admen realized they could really kick spending into overdrive if they shifted this virtuous paradigm into a “needs” economy. Instead of simple wants, products became must-haves and fundamental human needs. As federal programs eased access to credit and offered families the chance to own a home, Admen created internal, emotional bonds with buyers to sell more appliances and housewares.

For example, they stopped selling fertilizer as something that turns brown patches of grass into a uniformly green lawn. Admen branded fertilizer as the ticket to neighborly acceptance. A brown lawn tells neighbors you’re an incompetent, lazy slob. A green lawn signals you’re a capable, pleasing fellow. Social acceptance is an internal need, while a green lawn is an external want.

So why the history lesson?

Well, things haven’t gotten better. Modern technologies like ride-sharing platforms were supposed to reduce our production, decrease our negative impact on the environment, and help us live with less. However, consumption has only increased.

What’s more, you’re likely beginning to think (myself included in this), “Oh c’mon, what’s the big deal? I’m not hurting anyone, right?” This is cause for concern because it shows we’ve already assumed and internalized a dangerous pattern of thinking.

The airport loudspeaker cut through the music playing in my headphones. “Sorry folks, we need y’all to sit back down. We’ve discovered some mechanical issues with the aircraft. We’re not sure when our departure time will be, but we’ll keep you updated.”

I knew the drill. I boarded 63 flights in the six-month stretch prior to this trip, so I’d heard that ominous announcement a few times before. I hadn’t heard it in the Dallas airport however, so I guess it was a first of sorts.

My priority status meant I lined up to board first. While I stood in line, someone pounced on my gate-side seat. It was one of the good ones with an outlet and a window, too. I collected my duffel and shuffled past the throng of roller-bags near the gate. I looked for a new place to set up camp. Hopefully I’d only be there a few more minutes, but who knew? “Mechanical” isn’t the word you want to hear when discussing delayed flights.

I found a pair of vacant seats a few rows away. I settled into a black pleather chair and felt an unpleasant warmth spread across my back. A nervous flier had likely sat there. I leaned forward from the seatback and grabbed my phone to text a friend, Jeff.

“Dude,” I tapped out a quick message. “I might be landing in Denver later than planned...”

Jeff and his fiancé were flying in to ski with Erin and me. My flight was supposed to land two hours before theirs, but after the gate agent announced, “We’re looking into other aircraft to get everyone to their final destinations safely,” I was just hoping to get home that same day.

“Hey, can I join you?”

I looked up from my phone to see who was speaking. I wasn’t expecting to see what I saw – a man in his late thirties wearing a sheepish grin and an equally goofy pair of snow pants. He pointed to my duffel bag, which occupied the chair next to me, implying he wanted me to move it for him.

His bib-style snow pants rose over his shoulders and clipped in the front. They had extra padding that bunched around his knees and waist, like the kind parents buy for toddlers learning to ski. I was confused as to why someone would wear snow pants in an airport, a Texas airport of all places, before remembering I was headed home to Denver.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” I mumbled. “You’re going skiing this weekend, huh?” I asked as I moved my bag from the chair. Maybe it was his insulated overalls that had been incubating my seat.

“Yes! It’s my first time, believe it or not,” he said emphatically.

That wasn’t hard to believe at all, but I let him continue. “I’m meeting some friends. I don’t think they’ll be very happy to see me if we arrive too late, though,” he sighed.

“Yeah, I have some friends waiting on me, too,” I shared. “But your first-time, that’s exciting. Which mountain are you skiing?”

“Not sure. They say they’re going to watch the weather and we’ll go where the snow’s good. Maybe Gunnison, or something like that. Heard of it?” He asked.

“Sure, I was there a few weeks ago. That’s some ambitious skiing for your first time.”

“Wherever’s fine with me. I just can’t wait to get there,” he beamed as he kicked his cowboy boots out in front of him.

“I don’t know what you do, but I work in the oil fields. Skiing is like, really rare there. I never thought I’d go until some buddies moved and told me to visit. I’ve never seen snow, either, so I figured I might as well get used to the gear.”

He thumbed his overall straps, snapping them against his chest. I laughed. It sounded like his friends had some intense skiing in store for him, and I could only appreciate his eager naivety. He was wearing his overalls on an airplane, after all.  

“You’ll have fun,” I assured him. “It’ll be different than Texas, but you’ll have a blast.”

I looked around the gate after my new friend grew quiet. A TV mounted in the corner caught my eye. A liquor commercial featuring impressive people doing impressive things rolled along before the words, “Never Stop, Never Settle,” hung on the screen.

My first thought was to question the apparent link between liquor and extraordinary accomplishments. My next thought was born from the dichotomy of the tagline, “Never Stop, Never Settle,” and my new friend. On one hand, I’d just met a man so chock-full of delight for bunny hills and beat-up rentals he’d decided to wear his snow pants in the airport. On the other was an ad placing the ideals of incessant achievement and relentless consumption on full display.

The commercial said “more” is always the answer. Regardless of whether I feel fulfilled or hollow, the nature of the word “never” suggested that settling is to be avoided at all costs. Contentment shouldn’t be an option (and of course, if living by their mantra ever left me empty, I could just pick up a bottle of their alcohol).

Yet, the goofy grin and overalls next to me begged to differ. As I was sulking, Mr. Overalls was smiling. He was clearly the happier man between the two of us, and the only real difference between us was that he’d never skied, and I’d started at four years old. As a result, the inconvenience of a flight delay was able to put a damper on my weekend, while Mr. Overalls excitedly awaited the snow.

Honestly, I was a little jealous. I think we all need more of a Mr. Overalls approach. It’s too easy to live with a never-settle mentality. We waste too much time thinking about “if-then” scenarios. “If I could just…” or, “If I could only…” followed by some type of “then” and a false promise. “If I could just earn six-figures, then I’d spend more time with my family.”

I’m among the guiltiest offenders. Like, life-sentence guilty. Anyone who knows me knows Nate without a goal or project is Nate at his worst. I spend too many days feeling bogged down, trying to fill an unnamed void with more and more-extraordinary experiences. “If I could just…”

I don’t think this challenge is limited to over-achievers, either. Consuming more – whether it’s more experiences, products, even new relationships – is a bottomless pit that will never content us. “More” will never create the thrill of heading to the bunny slopes after working in the oil fields. But, if we trust that consumption will never equate satisfaction, we can find what will truly fulfill us.

Jesus spoke a lot about filling the holes in our hearts. He said we try to plug those holes with all kinds of stuff when we actually need a savior. In fact, he said we’d truly know where our heart’s affections lie by how much we consume. He said, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth… But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:19-21) In other words, while Admen may say our clothes determine our character, Jesus said our possessions reveal our priorities.

Jesus totally turned the world’s link between consumption and contentment on its head. He went so far as to say, “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” (Luke 6:20) So Jesus didn’t just say blessed are you who have “enough,” or you who “settle” (let alone you who never settle).

He pointed out that a poverty of possessions removed the possibility we’d look to stuff to satisfy us. Without glimmering treasure blinding us from God’s invitation, he said we could find a full life in his kingdom.

Jesus knew this is easier said than done, by the way. And on another occasion, he revealed just how strong the draw of treasure and wealth and possessions actually is. So strong, in fact, that Jesus said it’s nearly impossible for a rich man to find God’s kingdom.

As a rich man approached Jesus, he asked him, “Teacher, what good deed must I do to have eternal life?” After Jesus told him to keep God’s commandments, and the rich man said he already had, Jesus replied, “If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.” Then, the Bible says:

When the young man heard this he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions. And Jesus said to his disciples, “Truly, I say to you, only with difficulty will a rich person enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God. (Matthew 19:16-24)

Believe it or not, the man’s riches weren’t the central issue here. Instead, Jesus revealed that the man’s “great possessions” had crowded his heart. He hadn’t left any room for God. His good deeds were just an attempt to have it all. He wanted to find eternal life later and hang onto his treasure now.

Deep down, the rich man knew that approach was falling short. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have asked Jesus his question in the first place.

Jesus’ response said that finding eternal life, which ultimately satisfies the longings of our hearts, only happens when we’ve made room for God. Not only that, but we must place God first. Finding his kingdom is not as simple as following commands. It’s a matter of our priorities, and had the rich man been willing to sell his possessions, he would have found the kingdom. He would have valued God over stuff.

Jesus wasn’t the only one to touch on this topic. Generation after generation, the writers of the Bible discovered that as long as we have God, we have it all. The writer of Hebrews encouraged us, “…be content with what you have, because God has said, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.” (Hebrews 13:5)

Even Solomon, the one guy in history who (literally) had it all, and I mean everything from riches to land to power and wisdom, said, “He who loves money will not be satisfied with money, nor he who loves wealth with his income.” (Ecclesiastes 5:10) Solomon knew “if-then” statements never work out. “If I could just get a little more, then I’d be happy…” is deceiving.

In the end, stuff never lasts, and more never satisfies. Even the thrill of throwing on overalls and cruising down the mountain for the first time fades away. So, the question we’re left with is this. Will we buy culture’s narrative of consumption, or will we make room for Jesus to finally and wholly fill us?

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The Big Idea: small choices can bring big consequences.

“Even when we think one wrong move will snowball into an avalanche, God’s working behind the scenes to weave our fears and failures into something beautiful. With his design and in time, even something as ugly as death can result in a full, rich life.”  

My wife and I recently escaped an avalanche that raced down the Rockies and onto the Colorado Interstate, swallowing up cars commuting back to Denver.

Okay, “escaped” is a little dramatic, but had we started our drive just fifteen minutes earlier, we would have been engulfed by a massive pile of snow.

An unbelievable 24 inches of powder fell during the prior two days, which made for the perfect ski (and avalanche) conditions. We didn’t want to squander perfect fields of champagne powder, so we chose to forgo breakfast and hit the slopes early.

That tiny choice ultimately had an enormous impact on the rest of our day. Had we left just a short while later, we’d have been swamped by snow. Now, I can’t say for certain that our day turned out better than those who were trapped by the snow. Perhaps the avalanche was someone’s snowy savior, preventing them from sliding off a cliff later on the drive.

But, what I think we can all say for sure, is that small choices can carry big consequences. Even routine, run-of-the-mill decisions can snowball into much more significant outcomes.

This is really quite alarming if you consider the implications of it. It’s plain to see that something major like signing a mortgage or proposing marriage will alter the course of your life. On the other hand, nobody thinks twice about lingering over a bowl of cereal. And, how could we? We couldn’t function like that. Just imagine the mental energy required to get into the office on a Tuesday.

Life is simpler, and easier, when small decisions feel contained.

However, fortunately or unfortunately, small decisions don’t always stay in their silos. There’s an interesting (and scary) branch of mathematics called Chaos Theory that unpacks this. Chaos Theory states a tiny change in the initial conditions of a certain system can result in massive differences later on, and over time. You may have heard this called the “Butterfly Effect.” That’s the name a mathematician, Edward Lorenz, coined after studying a real-world example of how chaos affects our lives.

Lorenz’s butterfly-based example discusses weather, and how “a butterfly flaps its wings in China and sets off a tornado in Texas. Small events compound and irreversibly alter the future of the universe… [he then refers to a line chart] a tiny fluctuation of 0.00001 makes an enormous difference in the behavior and state of the system 50 generations later.” (See here)

When applied to your life and mine, that’s really a remarkable concept. We like to believe our lives are comprised by limited and linear cause-effect relationships. In other words, life is easy if one decision produces one direct and apparent outcome. However, our lives are far more dynamic than this. An immeasurable number of variables coalesce to influence the trajectory of our lives, and there’s a multiplicative effect when you consider we don’t live on an island. Our lives affect others around us, too.

I tucked a sketchbook into my backpack and slipped out from behind my desk. My co-workers were starting to talk about options for lunch, but I already had plans, and I preferred to leave the office without explaining them.

You see, I’d grown weary of my job as a consultant. I was working for a reputable, well-paying firm at the time, but I didn’t feel fulfilled. I wasn’t interested in working for high-flying law firms, or the prestige and security that a consulting career afforded me. Instead, I wanted to watch an idea sprout into a full-fledged company. I wanted to build a startup.

I began setting up lunch and late-night meetings with other entrepreneurs around Chicago, and I kept the beginnings of a company in my sketchbook – a name, a logo, concept drawings and a revenue model. I was trying to track down someone to go into business with.

I figured my co-workers would second-guess my loyalty (and my sanity) if they discovered I had been ducking team outings to attend meetings with people I barely knew, to pursue an idea that, statistically speaking, was likely to crash and burn. So, I crept to the elevator uninterrupted, and I charged out of our skyscraper’s grand foyer to where my bike was waiting for me.

I had waited until the last possible minute to leave the office so I cranked on the pedals and weaved in and out of noontime traffic. I glanced at my watch as I came to a skidding stop outside a noodles shop. I had just enough time to lock my bike and fix my hair.

I spotted who I was meeting as soon as I walked inside. Despite the lunch-time crowd, he was unmistakable. He looked just like his LinkedIn picture, and nobody else wore wood-trimmed glasses.

“Hi, I’m Brian,” he rose to shake my hand.

“I’m Nate, good to meet you, Brian,” I replied.

“So, you have an idea?” He asked as we sat down in a corner table. “How can I help?”

I explained my idea – a platform to help small nonprofits raise money – and Brian listened intently. He asked good follow-up questions, inquired about my motivations, and was genuinely curious about my background. When I was finished, he nodded, complimented my creativity, and leaned in a little closer.

“Here’s my idea,” he began.

Brian had been working in and for small nonprofits for the past decade. He knew what makes them tick, what keeps them up at night, and how they raise money. He developed a beautiful vision in my mind, drawing lines from the motivations I spoke about, to the nonprofits he knew about. He connected the platform I wanted to build, with the skills I’d acquire while creating his idea.

I ate my noodles and listened with rapt fascination. He wasn’t just talking about a hobby, or even a business. He was outlining a mission. There was an undeniable charisma and a sense of purpose behind his words.

“I have someone doing operations, and an engineer. You should meet them, too,” he suggested as I picked up our empty noodle bowls. “You know, ask them questions, see what you think.”

“Sounds great to me,” I agreed. “I’ll email you later today.”

Two weeks and two meetings later, I decided I was in. I’d dive headfirst into building Brian’s idea, and I’d give my consulting firm my two-week notice. I knew it was a weighty decision to make. I was leaving a stable salary and an established firm for a significant pay cut and an uncertain future, after all. But I didn’t think of it as a truly life-altering decision. I only saw the next day in front of me, not the years’ worth of major life milestones that would shift as a result.

Today, with the benefit of hindsight, I can say meeting Brian for that bowl of noodles was the best choice I ever made. Through it, I found a partner who shaped me as a startup co-founder, and developed me as a person, too. We’ve ridden out five years of ups and downs, and we’ve watched an idea spreads to thousands of nonprofits across hundreds of cities.

Best of all, I met my wife. I had always planned to leave the city and head west, but the business planted me right where I was able to get to know Erin. I don’t mean to gloss over the finer details here, but long story short, that role kept me in the city long enough for us to start dating and fall in love. Right before we got engaged, our company was bought, we ended up moving to Colorado, bought a house, adopted a dog, and as they say, the rest is history.

Without that bowl of noodles, I don’t think my writing would even exist. It really did put me on a totally different life path. It’s strange to think that I was just one meal away from a very different life, but maybe you can relate. Do you have a bowl-o-noodles story?

If you don’t, who knows? Maybe it’s right around the corner.

Mercifully for us, the trajectory of our lives isn’t left to random chance. There’s a divine patterning in the fabric of our lives, and it’s woven together a truly miraculous existence. It’s no less miraculous when we feel disappointed, depressed, or dejected, either. The fact is, we wouldn’t even know what it is to feel sorrow, much less joy, if our reality was built upon happenstance.

The scientific revolution was supposed to reveal why faith is obsolete. Instead, one of science’s most salient discoveries is how our world’s natural laws conspire to uphold the necessity of divine design. We’ve discovered more than two dozen parameters that must be precisely aligned for our world to sustain life. The physical and astrological conditions that allowed for our world’s beginning were so impossibly strict that the probability of us walking and talking is equivalent to you dropping a pin from the International Space Station and hitting a one-inch target on Earth’s surface.

No kidding. Every day we rise, eat cereal, and sit in traffic is so rare it’s an ordinary miracle. Nobody would accept these odds when buying a lottery ticket, so how could we bet our lives on them? What’s more, without design, Chaos Theory really does equate a stressful existence. There cannot be a loving, caring creator who orchestrates our finer details and unknowable futures. We must control all the tiny conditions and circumstances of our lives, which may result in massive consequences down the road.

In the Gospels, Jesus talks about this theory. He says God prefers to use tiny beginnings to bring about the majestic fullness of his kingdom. He equates God’s kingdom to a mustard seed, “… which is the smallest of all seeds on earth. Yet when planted, it grows and becomes the largest of all garden plants, with such big branches that the birds can perch in its shade.” (Mark 4:30-32)

A mustard seed would have been a shocking choice of imagery to an ancient, agrarian society. You see, the typical mustard seed is just 0.05 inches wide. With time and fertile soil, it produces a plant up to nine feet tall. That’s 2,160 times its original size. And once planted, it quickly germinates to produces multiple plants.

The people Jesus was speaking to would have known this, and for that reason, they would have planted mustard seeds in fields – not gardens. While a mustard seed seems inconsequential, they would have expected it to grow into a massive plant sprouting all kinds of branches and roots upwards and downwards.

In the event someone missed the meaning of the mustard-seed parallel, Jesus reinforced his message by talking about yeast. He said, “The kingdom of heaven is like leaven that a woman took and hid in three measures of flour, till it was all leavened.” (Matthew 13:33) Three measures was equivalent to 60 pounds of flour, so clearly, a small dose of yeast would result in a whole lot of bread.

Through each of these parables, Jesus was cluing us into God’s strange approach of forming big things from humble beginnings. This is an ideal Jesus embodied as, from his start in a stable to his humiliating death on the cross, he would have appeared wholly unimpressive to most people.

As a result, nobody would have expected the massive growth of the early church. Many assumed his movement would die out, and his diehards would disband. Everyone believed they’d buried someone insignificant, and rightfully so. If Jesus was truly the Messiah, the anointed one sent to save the world, how could he die? Yet, what most didn’t see until the church took root was that they’d buried a mustard seed.

For you and for me, I think this means that although small choices can yield big consequences, we don’t have to worry. There’s no need to dread chaos. Even when we think one wrong move will snowball into an avalanche, God’s working behind the scenes to weave our fears and failures into something beautiful. With his design and in time, even something as ugly as disasters or death can result in a full, rich life.

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The Big Idea: difficult experiences are the hardest to forget.

Coloradans climb 14ers like New Yorkers eat bagels.

There are a lot of varieties to try, and you’re not really a native unless you’re able to list the mountains/delis you’ve visited. Coloradans, however, believe summitting 14ers is much cooler than eating bagels, and sub sandwiches for that manner. (For the uninitiated, a 14er’s peak rises higher than 14,000 feet in elevation).

You’ve most likely noticed some patterns and personality in my stories by this point, so you can probably sense this is one cult tradition I could easily get behind. I love the outdoors, adventure, and a good challenge. Putting it all together in the form of a statewide ritual felt like the greatest hobby ever.

While the first time Erin and I summitted a 14er is a moment I’ll never forget, it’s an experience she rather would. We were totally unprepared for what unfolded during our ascent, you see. While that only served to heighten the sense of adventure in my mind, it was so distressing in Erin’s, she wouldn’t entertain the thought of climbing another 14er for quite some time.

Generally, we believe we create memories with our minds, but it’s our emotions that determine what we retain. We don’t actually see memories for what they are. Feelings are sticky, they attach themselves to past events as we construct memories based upon what we felt. When we recall past events, the facts may be fuzzy, but sensations are as sharp as ever – especially the negative ones.

When I think about this particular trek up a 14er called Gray’s, I don’t remember how many switchbacks we navigated, or how many miles we hiked. I clearly remember, however, feeling alive as the relentless winds of a winter storm pummeled me. Erin, on the other hand, remembers with scrupulous detail how miserable she felt while sliding down ice-covered scree, wishing our day would come to an early end.

As it turns out, it’s the painful memories we’d most like to forget that are toughest to leave behind.

I squeezed my watch as the alarm and glowing green face said it was time to rise and shine. There were still a few hours left before sunrise, but we needed to break down our campsite near the base of Gray’s and get moving. The weather becomes more variable in the afternoon, so we’d have to start our descent down the mountain’s face far before then.

I folded our tent and crammed my sleeping bag into its stuff-sack. Once our gear was neatly consolidated I sat down beside Erin and gratefully accepted a cup of coffee.

“How’d y’all sleep?” I asked as our group of friends, Grant, Bre, and Danny walked over. Their packs and headlamps were strapped on, ready to begin our journey.

“Well…” Danny sighed. “Bre woke up in a stupor around midnight, freaking out that someone was trying to get into our tent. I didn’t sleep much after that.”

“Bummer,” I said as I studied Danny’s bare legs. “Shorts? Will you be warm enough in those?”

“Yeah man, we Peruvians are cold weather people,” he laughed. “Besides, it supposed to be pretty sunny today.”

“Hope so,” I nodded.

“You guys ready to get rolling?” Grant, the native Coloradan among us, asked. “We should head out if we want to make both Gray’s and Torrey’s,” he advised, referring to Gray’s sister peak, which can be reached by traversing a saddle connecting the two summits.

Erin double-checked her backpack and confirmed she’d tucked her camera inside. “Ready!”

Our journey began as we navigated a skinny trail cut through thick sagebrush. Every so often, I turned around to watch the dispersed trail of headlamps tracing our footsteps. The track of lights looked like little ants against the pre-dawn blackness, all following little breadcrumbs we’d dropped along the way. As the sun gently rose a few hours later, we all stopped to suck down water.

“So far so easy,” I said as I attacked a granola bar and gazed back at the looming walls of rock on either side of the valley.

“Well, I think I’m a little too hydrated,” Erin spoke up. “I’m going to find a place to do my thing.”

A few minutes later, Erin came running back to our group. “Did you guys knows there’s a huge cliff that way? Like, sheer, hundred-foot drop-off huge. I was almost toast!”

“We’ll stick together now,” I reassured her. “No worries.”

Shortly after we resumed our trek, the temperature began to plummet. Normally, the temperature climbs as the rising Colorado sun shines. On this particular morning, however, it was getting so cold that if we stopped moving, we began to shiver and rub our hands together to generate heat. We were all wearing some sort of light windbreaker, but none of us had planned for winter weather.

“Graupel, that’s interesting,” Grant said as he swiped his hand along a rock and inspected the wintry mix clinging to his glove.

“You nerd,” his wife, Bre, joked after hearing Grant’s weather-science master’s degree speaking.

“Well this graupel is making my hands as cold as Danny’s legs,” Erin said.

As we kept moving up the trail, slowly but surely, we started to see hikers in front of us turning around. It was either too snowy, slick, or just plain miserable to continue. In fact, the wind smacking my hood was so loud I couldn’t hear Erin expressing how much the weather sucked until she was close enough to tap me.

After another hour of moving up the trail, we were closing in on the summit. Roughly 600 feet of vertical elevation remained when we crouched out of the wind to assess everyone’s status. Erin was miserable. Danny didn’t look too good. The altitude was getting to him, and he was feeling a little queasy. Grant and Bre, like me, were cold, but up to make a final push to the summit.

As you might imagine, the deceptive part about summiting 14ers is the thinning air. As you gain elevation, it compounds the effort required to take each additional step. Hiking at a mile high is one thing, hiking 9,000 feet higher is a whole different experience.

The blowing, wintry mix turned to snow as Erin shivered in her windbreaker. “Time to move,” I said, wanting to keep warm while making progress.

Less than an hour later, we made the summit. Shaking from the cold and winded from the effort, we held up a sign that read “GRAYS PEAK, 14,278FT” and posed for a picture. There were no breathtaking views, no gazing across the Rockies from atop the world. Instead, we stood in front of a solid white backdrop. I kid you not, apart from the earth-colored boulders around our feet, the back of the photo is as pure white as a brand-new bedsheet.

We were standing on the peak of a 14er in the middle of pure Colorado whiteout, and clearly, we didn’t come prepared.

“I can’t even see Torrey’s right now,” I said to Grant after we snapped a few photos. “This is going to get pretty sketchy.”

“Yeah, there’s hardly any visibility,” Grant agreed.

“You’re not considering hiking across, right?” Erin overhead us.

“Well, we should definitely get Danny down to lower elevation,” I pointed out.

Grant nodded. “No doubt. I’m amazed he made it here. Altitude sickness is no joke.”

We all agreed that traversing to Torrey’s Peak was too risky. It would be just as risky to split the group, so it was settled. We’d head down after spending just a few minutes atop Gray’s. As we picked our way down the slope, I considered how people always talk about making it to the top of a mountain. Really, we should talk more about making it down.

Making it back down Gray’s turned out to be just as exhausting and even more mentally taxing than the trek up. The snow that was once light and fluffy had turned to ice, creating a slick glassy film that coated every surface we stepped or held onto. Unstable footing and the unforgiving force of gravity worked together to bring us crashing onto the jagged rock time and time again.

Eventually, we made it off the mountainside. When we passed the valley and reached the trailhead, I knew we’d never forget that trip, no matter how many mountains we visited. Erin, however, was convinced she’d never hike another 14er.

She preferred to forget the experience altogether.

If you were to ask about that trip up Gray’s, I would say it was incredible, while Erin would say it was incredibly unenjoyable. Erin recalls feeling such intense discomfort that her impression of 14ers was colored with a dark shade for quite some time.

For a while, I’d joke about picking more, and more difficult, peaks to climb, just to get a rise out of her. I’d always get a reaction because as far as she was concerned, she was done with 14er’s. Yet, when I’d mention climbing Gray’s in a whiteout, she couldn’t help but recall the experience in vivid detail. The feeling of blustering wind and sliding down icy rock still rush to her mind.

We all have memories we either label as pleasurable or painful. Strangely, it’s the painful times we most want to forget that are most deeply engrained in our brains. They seem to find the folder marked Do Not Erase. Even a years-old event can feel as fresh and raw as an event that occurred yesterday. That’s why Erin reacts so strongly to the mention of 14ers.

Pleasurable moments, by contrast, usually fade with time. It’s easier for the details of euphoric experiences – like summitting Gray’s, from my perspective – to escape us. They’re written over by more recent experiences, as if the folder labeled Keep in our brains already hit its storage limit.

For example, when I recall my wedding night, it feels like I missed most of it. I was caught up in the high of seeing my bride, celebrating with family, and catching up with friends, so the details are fuzzy. However, I can perfectly recount the conversations from our honeymoon which centered on how I was selfishly wandering off to find my own adventures in a foreign country (guys, your wife isn’t supposed to cry on her honeymoon, just so you know). Those moments are filled with heartache, not happiness, and they’re far clearer in my mind.

A Boston-based psychologist, Elizabeth Kensinger, backed this phenomenon with evidence in a groundbreaking study.

She found people who feel negative emotions during an event are far more likely to accurately recount the event. Similarly, she discovered that we retain adverse memories for far longer than pleasurable ones. A plausible explanation she offers for this is threatening and harmful times are more valuable to our brains. They help us survive and avoid future pain.

That sounds reasonable to me. However, I think there are other factors at work here, too. Personally, I tend to internalize my flaws while writing off my accomplishments as accidents. I attribute wins as good things that just happened to go my way, while I hold myself personally accountable for my failures. “If only I had just…” is the start of too many sentences in my life.

I know that holding onto screw-ups and painful experiences is no way to live. If I always allow the sweet moments that lighten the sting of past pain to fade way, it’s only a matter of time before I’m crushed under the burden of years-worth of negative memories.

Luckily, Jesus said there was a better way. He showed us it’s possible to live lightly in a world filled with heavy, grievous moments. While life will never consist of four-hour lunch breaks and weekly bonuses at work, he said that’s more than okay. In fact, he regularly sent his followers out into the whiteout.

The twelve who followed Jesus were told to go face down some pretty serious baggage, like diseases and demons. I’ve never seen a demon, but I have to imagine they’re not pretty, and the sight of them probably sticks in your mind for some time. Yet, as they left to tackle demons and diseases, Jesus instructed them, “Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money; and do not have two tunics.” He didn’t even give them a windbreaker.

If we choose to follow Jesus, we’ll be called into the unknown, often feeling like we’re sliding on our butts down frozen rocks. Rarely will we be equipped for what we’ll encounter. This can seem very counter-productive on the surface, like Jesus just doesn’t know how to plan very well. I think it’s all for our good, however. He just wants us to follow the path he created, instead of wandering off the side of the mountain.

Faithfully following Jesus into the whiteout will always be hard work, but fortunately, he warms us up along the way. When our past produces feelings of guilt, anger, and sadness, he cloaks us in grace, forgiveness, and hope. Jesus reminds us that he accepted the physical wounds of the cross, that we might be given the emotion healing we need to keep moving forward.

Even the apostle Paul, a man whose past was stained with the memories of executing Jesus’ followers in the bloodiest of ways, was able to write, “[I]f anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” Paul didn’t cling to the oppressive experiences he’d rather forget, saying to himself, “If only I’d killed one less Christian…” He embraced the joy and new life he found while following Jesus’ call.

A French priest and professor, Henri Nouwen, wrote about this intersection between mental health and spirituality. Some of his most salient words read:

To be grateful for the good things that happen in our lives is easy, but to be grateful for all of our lives the good as well as the bad, the moments of joy as well as the moments of sorrow, the successes as well as the failures, the rewards as well as the rejections that requires hard spiritual work. Still, we are only grateful people when we can say thank you to all that has brought us to the present moment. As long as we keep dividing our lives between events and people we would like to remember and those we would rather forget, we cannot claim the fullness of our beings as a gift of God to be grateful for. Let's not be afraid to look at everything that has brought us to where we are now and trust that we will soon see in it the guiding hand of a loving God.

Everyone is willing to embrace the wins and warm moments. Standing on a mountain top in the sunshine is the easy part. Enduring whiteouts and leg-burning trials while we’re wholly unprepared is the difficult part – and the part that usually sticks with us over the long-term. I think, though, that’s exactly why Mr. Nouwen says we’re to be grateful for both kinds of experiences. God’s able to use the good and the bad to shape us for the better.

By the way, in case you’re wondering, Erin did climb another 14er. Almost poetically, one year later, she summited Mt. Bierstadt while raising money for Colorado children suffering from mental health challenges.

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