John and Kathy Deisher

One Call, One Harvest, 50 Teams

life

Prepare the Way of the Lord

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It was in the wilderness that the voice was heard. Not in the busy streets or decorated halls, but out where the ground was uneven and the air was raw. “Prepare the way of the Lord,” Isaiah cries. Valleys lifted, mountains leveled, crooked places straightened. This is not cosmetic work—it is excavation. Advent begins here, not with lights and music, but with disruption. God is coming, and the landscape must change.

For us, the wilderness may look different. It might be the clutter of our schedules, the weight of our worries, or the loneliness that creeps in even when we’re surrounded by people. Advent calls us to prepare the way—not by adding more noise or decoration, but by making space. Space for silence. Space for prayer. Space for presence.

We live in deserts of distraction and hurry. The invitation is not to escape them, but to stand in them and mark them as holy ground. To whisper to ourselves and to others: “The Lord is coming here, too.”

So this week, begin your mornings in stillness, even if only for a few minutes. Let that quiet remind you that God is already at work before you begin your day. As you move through your week, notice the rough places—strained relationships, cluttered routines, restless thoughts—and ask God to smooth them. And when you encounter others, offer small acts of kindness: a listening ear, a word of encouragement, a shared meal. These are not grand gestures, but they are the hidden ways we prepare a highway for God.

And as you walk this path, may your valleys be lifted, your mountains humbled, your rough places smoothed. May your life itself become a highway for the coming King. And may the glory of the Lord be revealed in the ordinary places where you wait.

Thinking Theologically

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I’ve been thinking a lot about the ways we show up for the people around us—in classrooms, offices, coffee shops, living rooms, and all those quiet in-between spaces where real conversations seem to surface. Most of us don’t think of what we’re doing as anything special. We listen, we ask questions, we sit with people in whatever they’re carrying. But there’s something deeply meaningful—even holy—about that kind of presence.

And every now and then, a question bubbles up: Isn’t it enough to simply be kind? To love people well? Do we really need theology for that?

Howard Stone, in his book Thinking Theologically, offers a gentle nudge: whether we realize it or not, every one of us is already a theologian. Not in the academic, book-stacked sense, but in the everyday lived sense. We all carry what he calls “embedded theology”—the beliefs we’ve absorbed from church, family, culture, and experience. These shape the way we pray (or don’t), the hopes we cling to, the fears we carry, and the way we make sense of the world.

But there’s an invitation here—to move from the unexamined to the intentional. To pay attention to what we believe, why we believe it, and how those beliefs quietly steer our choices and relationships.

Eugene Peterson once said, “We don’t need more information about God; we need formation by God.” In other words, theology isn’t about collecting ideas—it’s about letting truth soak into the way we live. It’s about seeing how the gospel threads its way through our work, friendships, identity, calling, and even our struggles.

Think about the big questions people ask when life presses in:
Why is this so hard? What am I supposed to do with my life? Who am I? Where is God in all this?

Those questions are theological long before they ever show up in a classroom or a sermon. And every time we decide what matters most to us or how we’ll live out our values, we’re doing theology too.

This is why theology matters—not just for pastors or missionaries or students of religion, but for anyone trying to live with intention. Without it, our lives can drift into clichés and shortcuts. With it, we become steadier, more grounded, and more attentive to what’s real.

So when you’re sitting with someone who’s wrestling with doubt or disappointment, you’re not just offering comfort; you’re helping them reflect theologically—inviting them to see how their story fits inside a much larger one. Theology isn’t tucked away in seminaries; it’s happening on late-night walks, over morning coffee, and in honest conversations about what keeps us up at night.

There’s an old line from the apostle Peter: “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have.” You don’t have to be impressive or clever to do that. You just have to be rooted—thoughtful, present, and anchored in something deeper than the swirl of daily life.

So wherever you go this week—campus, office, home, or anywhere people gather—remember: you are already a theologian. The people around you are too. The invitation is simply to pay attention, to reflect, and to let what you believe shape not just your thoughts, but your whole way of being in the world.

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.