John and Kathy Deisher

One Call, One Harvest, 50 Teams

life

Knowing Christ

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Philippians 3:10 isn’t just a verse to memorize—it’s a doorway. Paul swings it wide and says, “Come in. This is the path I’m walking.” “I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death.” He’s not drafting doctrine; he’s handing us a map, worn and creased, for anyone serious about apprenticing under Jesus.

Knowing Christ isn’t about collecting facts or polishing theology. It’s about intimacy—the kind that changes you. Paul doesn’t want secondhand knowledge; he longs for firsthand experience. It’s like standing barefoot at the ocean’s edge, salt spray on your face. You don’t just read about the waves—you feel them.

Resurrection isn’t only past—it’s present power. The Spirit that raised Jesus pulses through ordinary lives, turning endings into beginnings, ashes into beauty, despair into hope. It gives courage, knowing death doesn’t get the final word.

But Paul also speaks of suffering—sharing in it. That’s the hard part. It’s gritty, not glamorous. It means walking through pain, letting our hearts break for what breaks Christ’s. Yet in that crucible, trust deepens, character is carved, and grace becomes our lifeline.

Becoming like him in death? That’s daily dying. Not dramatic, but deliberate. Choosing love over ego, service over ambition, surrender over control. Laying down our lives again and again for others. The slow, sacred work of becoming more like Jesus.

Philippians 3:10 is a summons. A call to go deeper. To know Jesus not just in theory, but in lived reality. To walk with him through resurrection joy and suffering sorrow. To live a life shaped by sacrificial love. And in that journey, we discover what we were made for: communion, transformation, and joy that endures beyond circumstances.

Thank You!

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As we settle deeper into the fall season, I’ve been reminded how powerful gratitude really is. This time of year can hold both beauty and strain—the quick pace, the full schedules, the constant needs that seem to arise out of nowhere. It’s easy to lose sight of thankfulness in the middle of it all.

But gratitude changes everything. It doesn’t deny the challenges; it reorients us to the One who’s still present in them. As Paul wrote to the Thessalonians, “Give thanks in all circumstances.” Gratitude frees the heart and steadies the soul. It reminds us that we’re not carrying the weight alone.

I’ve been especially thankful for the people who keep showing up—those who love, serve, and walk with others in quiet faithfulness. You’re helping create spaces of hope and renewal, and that matters deeply.

May this season bring moments of rest, peace, and the quiet assurance that God is near. Let’s keep choosing gratitude—it’s what keeps our hearts open and our community strong.

A Long Obedience

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Discipleship isn’t a sprint or even a steady march; it’s a long obedience in the same direction.

This morning, I watched the sunrise over the ranch. The sky was gentle and full of promise, and a few deer moved quietly through the woods—unhurried, alert, and completely uninterested in my to-do list. I sat with my coffee, soaking in the stillness.

It struck me that meaningful growth—whether in faith, relationships, or life—can’t be rushed. It’s slow, relational, and often invisible. You don’t see immediate results—just questions, fatigue, and students or friends wrestling with identity, purpose, and trust.

And that’s okay.

Our role isn’t to hurry things along. It’s to stay present, to walk alongside others, to listen more than we speak. To offer a rhythm different from the campus rush—a rhythm that says, “You’re not a project. You’re a person. And Jesus is already at work in you.”

As Eugene Peterson described, it’s “a long obedience in the same direction.” And Richard Foster reminds us that the Spirit is a gentle gardener. With that posture—patient, prayerful, rooted—we find our way.

Today, whether you’re preparing for a meeting, sharing coffee with a friend, or simply catching your breath—remember: you’re tending to souls, not managing outcomes. And the sunrise reminds us—God is already ahead of us, lighting the path.

Follow Me

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There are quiet moments—between the noise and the next task—when we hear it again: “Come, follow Me.” It’s not shouted. It’s not rushed. Just a steady invitation from Jesus. Reassuring, yes. But also demanding. He asks for our attention, our trust, and sometimes, our willingness to walk roads that feel long and lonely.

This is what Dietrich Bonhoeffer called the “cost of discipleship.” Not to scare us off, but to draw us closer to the heart of Christ. To follow Jesus—especially in places where things feel dry, or progress feels slow—can be hard. You may know the ache of being misunderstood, the weariness of doing good work that seems unnoticed, or the quiet grief of letting go of comfort or approval.

But here’s the truth: every cost carries a promise. Jesus never sends us out alone. His Spirit goes ahead of us. His mercy walks beside us. His love holds us up. “If anyone wants to follow Me,” He says, “let them take up their cross daily.” That cross isn’t just a burden—it’s a signpost. A reminder that Jesus is with us in the struggle, in the sacrifice, and in the slow work of love.

Bonhoeffer reminds us: we don’t walk this road to earn anything. We walk it because Jesus already has. He’s inviting us to let go of the life that keeps us stuck, and receive the life that sets us free. He meets us—in classrooms, in kitchens, in quiet corners of our day—with a love that doesn’t quit and a presence that steadies.

So let’s keep encouraging each other. The path of faith may be narrow, and it may cost us something—but it leads to joy. To surrender. To life. Every small act of kindness, every whispered prayer, every faithful step matters. It’s seen. It’s held. And it will bear fruit.

If you’re feeling tired, you’re not alone. We walk this road together—held by grace, shaped by the cross, and sustained by resurrection hope. May you feel Christ near today. May His kindness surprise you. And may you know that nothing offered in love is ever wasted.

Noticing God

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Let’s be real — life can feel like standing in the middle of a freeway. Everything’s moving fast, flashing, and demanding our attention. It’s 2025, and the noise of life isn’t slowing down anytime soon.

But here’s the thing: a meaningful life isn’t about keeping up with all the noise. It’s about slowing down long enough to notice what really matters — and staying present long enough to listen.

That’s why I want to talk about some old, unflashy, but deeply grounding practices often called spiritual disciplines. Things like prayer, reflection, rest, generosity, and honesty. They’re not boxes to check — they’re ways of creating space for what’s sacred.

Think of it this way: your inner life is like a garden. Growth takes time — joy, peace, hope, and love don’t just appear overnight. But every garden needs a structure to grow on. Without it, things sprawl everywhere. These simple practices are that structure — they give your life shape so that what’s good can grow.

Here are 3 simple ways to begin this week:

  • Pray Simply – Skip the formal words. Speak honestly, like you would to a close friend. Then pause and listen.
  • Read Slowly – Take a few lines from something that inspires you. Sit with them. Let the words follow you through the day.
  • Find Silence – Even five minutes counts. Turn off your phone. Let quiet do its healing work.

Let’s not just make it through 2025. Let’s move through it with intention — one step, one breath, one conversation at a time.

God at Work

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It’s surprising how often what we call “coincidences” are actually God at work. Not long ago, I came across my old daily planner from the early 1990s. When I opened to August, the pages were packed—every 15 minutes scheduled from morning to night. I had two young kids, no staff, and felt the pressure of trying to grow our student ministry. Back then, I believed the outcome rested on how hard I worked.

A few days later, while sorting through files, I found a paper I wrote in grad school. It was about Meister Eckhart, a 14th-century priest and mystic. He taught that people often get so busy doing things “for God” that they miss God Himself in the middle of it all. His advice was to slow down, expect God to be present, and actually look for Him in every moment. That reminder hit me again—He’s always at work, whether we see it or not.

Was it just chance that I found both of those things right as a new season begins? I don’t think so. Starting something new can be exciting and exhausting at the same time. I love meeting people, sharing stories, and seeing lives change. But the long hours, the heavy work, and the emotional ups and downs can make it hard to notice God in the middle of it. Yet the truth is—He’s there. Even in the ordinary, even in the messy, even in the moments that don’t go as planned.

So here’s the challenge: take a few pauses this month and look for God. Did something small go your way? He’s there. Did a plan fall through? He’s still there. Did you gain something? God’s in it. Did you lose something? He’s still in it. Even finding the best wings in town—yes, God can be in that, too.

He is present in all things. If we slow down and look, we will find Him.

A Wrath Full of Compassion

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“[God’s] wrath is a wrath of compassion.” (Martin Luther, Luther’s Works, 13:86).

“For we have been consumed by Your anger, and we have been terrified by Your wrath. You have placed our guilty deeds before You, our hidden sins in the light of Your presence. For all our days have dwindled away in Your fury; we have finished our years like a sigh. As for the days of our life, they contain seventy years, or if due to strength, eighty years, Yet their pride is only trouble and tragedy; for it quickly passes, and we disappear. Who understands the power of Your anger and Your fury, according to the fear that is due You? So teach us to number our days, that we may present to You a heart of wisdom.” (Psalm 90:7-12)

Psalm 90 isn’t the kind of passage we usually print on a coffee mug or hang on the wall. In fact, it is probably a Psalm we would rather skip over (you would be in good company; the Reformer Martin Luther was not a fan of this chapter).

My devotional reading this week took me to a Psalm where Moses (yes, that Moses) writes with raw honesty about God’s anger—how it consumes, how even our secret sins are fully exposed in His presence. It can feel weighty, especially in the middle of a busy ministry season, when we’re already carrying a lot.

But then there’s this quote from Martin Luther in his writings on Psalm 90: “[God’s] wrath is a wrath of compassion.”

Luther may not have liked the chapter, but he recognized its truth, and that truth stops you in your tracks.

God’s wrath isn’t like human anger. He’s not explosive or distant. His wrath comes from love. It’s His fierce resistance to what breaks us, wounds us, and distorts the truth. In that light, His discipline isn’t something we need to run from—it’s something we can actually lean into.

Moses does just that. He turns from lament to prayer: “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”

Our days are full, and yet, they’re also limited. Short. Sacred.

God’s wrath here isn’t rejection—it’s a holy wake-up call. It’s compassion that calls us to live intentionally, humbly, wisely, so that we make the most of our days.

And don’t miss how the psalm starts: “Lord, you have been our dwelling place through all generations.”

Even in His correction, He remains our refuge. Even in His holiness, He is still our home.

Springtime

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Tree budding in the spring

Photo by Zoshua Colah on Unsplash

“I am the true grapevine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch of mine that doesn’t produce fruit, and he prunes the branches that do bear fruit so they will produce even more. You have already been pruned and purified by the message I have given you. Remain in me, and I will remain in you. For a branch cannot produce fruit if it is severed from the vine, and you cannot be fruitful unless you remain in me. Yes, I am the vine; you are the branches. Those who remain in me, and I in them, will produce much fruit. For apart from me you can do nothing. Anyone who does not remain in me is thrown away like a useless branch and withers. Such branches are gathered into a pile to be burned. But if you remain in me and my words remain in you, you may ask for anything you want, and it will be granted! When you produce much fruit, you are my true disciples. This brings great glory to my Father.” (John 15:1-8)

It may be Spring on the calendar, but no one told the weather. The last few days have been sunny, which gives you the illusion of warmth until you go outside and face the cold and wind.

I have been through seasons of life that felt the same. There was nothing outwardly that seemed to be wrong. There was no crisis, no gloomy clouds of doubt. But inwardly, I felt cold and blown by winds that I could not shake. In those times, it becomes easy to give in to introspection that questions everything. Just as you might question your plans on a cold, windy day, you find yourself searching for meaning in those seasons of spiritual winter. It is not despair, for we know that just as the cold of winter will pass into the new life of spring, our spiritual winter will birth a season of new life. But we struggle to make sense of such seasons.

I have learned to accept those seasons as a time for rumination and germination. It is a time to ask questions, but instead of forcing answers I allow those questions time to see what begins to grow and what withers away. Just as a gardener takes a seed and plants it in good soil, I plant my questions in the soil of a life having served a very faithful God. He knows His plans and purposes for me, and while I might feel like I am ready to take charge and be productive for the Kingdom, the Master Gardener knows that there are seasons of being hidden and germinating, becoming strong so that we can bear the pruning necessary to be productive in the next season.

The sun will shine, and the air will be warm and the winds refreshing, and what we have allowed God to do in our lives in those winter seasons will be rewarded with abundant fruit.