For You have girded me with strength for battle; You have subdued under me those who rose up against me.

Psalm 18:39

Confessions in the Dark

Nightfall brought no respite. Exhausted but unable to sleep, Wade stared up at the bottom of Torres’s bunk. A million questions swirled in his mind. Was he strong enough for this? Would he be able to survive the brutal training, let alone the war that raged beyond the unforgiving surface of Carthis 7?

A soft rustle from the bunk below him pulled him from his thoughts. Mike, his face barely visible in the dim light, sat up, his voice a hushed whisper. “You okay, Wade?”

Wade let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know, Mike. This is… this is a lot harder than I thought.”

“Yeah,” Mike admitted. “But we knew it wouldn’t be easy, right? We signed up for this.”

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the ventilation system. Then, Mike spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hey, you remember why we signed up?”

Wade closed his eyes, the image of his dad flooding his mind. Being a wounded Marine, his father had vehemently opposed any participation in the military. Their cramped apartment gave Wade no escape from his father’s constant criticism and arguing. He remembered the parting insult as he shut the door and he headed for the shuttle. He was determined to prove his father wrong, to become someone worthy of respect, in spite of the older man’s objections. Wade’s jaw set in steely resolve – he would make his dad eat those bitter words.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice thick with emotion. “I remember.”

“Then that’s all that matters,” Mike said, a hint of steel in his voice. “We keep pushing, for them, for ourselves. We become Rangers, and then we go kick some Skravak butt.”

A soft creak from the top bunk made them both turn their heads. Alex Torres, his face obscured by the shadows, leaned down slightly. “That’s right, Mike,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “We can’t quit now. We’re past the point of no return. Do or die, man! Do or die!”

The quiet declaration hung in the air, a silent pact formed between them in the darkness. Despite the harsh reality of their situation, a bond of shared hardship began to solidify.

Curious about Alex’s motivations, Wade spoke up. “What about you, Torres? What brought you here?”

Alex hesitated for a moment, then pulled himself up slightly on his bunk, his silhouette outlined against the faint light filtering through the window. “My village,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Destroyed. Skravaks came in the night, they burned and killed everything. My family…” he trailed off, the silence speaking volumes.

A wave of empathy washed over Wade. He could hear the unspoken grief, understand the raw anger burning beneath the quiet surface. This wasn’t just about duty or proving himself for Alex – it was about vengeance, about ensuring no one else suffered the same fate.

“My family’s back on Earth,” Mike offered, his voice softer now. “They wouldn’t let me join the military, said it was too dangerous. But I saw what the Skravaks did to the outer colonies, the stories… I just couldn’t stand by and do nothing.”

Wade nodded, understanding dawning. While their backgrounds were different – a working-class family yearning for a better life, a survivor seeking revenge, a young man defying his father’s wishes – they were united by a common purpose. Here, on Carthis 7, they were no longer strangers from different corners of the galaxy. They were bunkmates, fellow recruits, a band of brothers.

“Yeah,” Wade said finally, finding a newfound strength in his voice. “We have to make it. We fight. For our families, for each other, for everyone in the colonies depending on us.”

A heavy silence descended after Wade’s declaration, broken only by the distant wail of a sandstorm howling across the alien landscape. They didn’t need to say anything more. Their shared experiences, whispered confessions, and unspoken dreams had woven a fragile bond of trust and camaraderie.

Ghosts of the Past

The relentless sun beat down on Carthis 7, turning the day into a furnace. Wade clutched his pulse rifle, the weight a familiar burden in his arms. Classroom sessions, once a welcome respite from the physical demands of training, had become a battle against exhaustion. Lectures on tactics and strategy blurred together in his sleep-deprived mind, the alien names and technical jargon swirling into a confusing mess.

Wade’s eyelids grew heavy, the weight of exhaustion pulling them down. He allowed himself the briefest respite, just a fleeting moment to rest. But that fragile slice of peace was shattered in an instant. Staff Sergeant Hathras’ muscular arm constricted around Wade’s neck, cinching tight like a vise, cutting off his airflow. He was trapped, immobilized, unable to breathe or utter a sound.

“You maggots won’t last long if beauty sleep is more important than your lives,” Hathras growled, his words laced with menace.

With a sudden release, the sergeant’s arm unwound, and Wade gasped, choking and sputtering as precious air rushed back into his lungs.

“Stay awake, Kovacs!” Hathras barked. “That was your last warning.”

The words hung in the air, a stark reminder that even the briefest lapse could prove catastrophic in their brutal world.

“Attention citizens,” the newscaster’s voice boomed. All Marines’ eyes turned to the huge monitors at the front of the classroom. An artificial cheer masking the underlying anxiety crackled from the speakers. “The war effort continues on multiple fronts. Our brave Marines are holding the line against the Skravak menace…”

The report, carefully curated by the government, painted a rosy picture of the war effort. Here, in the sterile classroom on Carthis 7, the truth felt far bleeker. Hathras, his eyes fixed in a stare somewhere off in the distance, as if he was lost in thought, as he recounted stories of battles lost, of entire Ranger companies wiped out. The fear that had been simmering beneath the surface of Wade’s optimism flared.

A sharp rap on the desk jolted him back to the present. Hathras stood before him, a predatory smile playing on his lips. “Private Kovacs! Daydreaming again? Perhaps you’d prefer a more ‘hands-on’ approach to learning?”

Wade scrambled to his feet, stammering an apology. Hathras’ smile widened, a cruel amusement in his eyes. The rest of the class watched, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity.

Hathras barked an order, and two hulking DIs dragged a large metal cage into the room. Inside, a creature writhed – a grotesque parody of an insect, its chitinous shell gleaming under the harsh light. Its mandibles clicked menacingly, its multifaceted eyes glinting with primal rage.

“A Skravak drone,” Hathras announced, his voice dripping with theatrical dread. “A mere scouting unit, but a taste of the horrors you’ll face on the front lines.”

Panic surged through Wade as the cage was brought closer. The creature strained against the bars, its fetid stench filling the air. Memories of news reports depicting Skravak attacks, the raw terror in the victims’ eyes, flooded his mind.

Suddenly, a booming voice cut through the tension. Gunnery Sergeant Harris stood at the back of the classroom, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Enough theatrics, Staff Sergeant Hathras,” she said, her voice a low growl. “Let’s not waste time on a single drone. Private Torres, front and center! What’s your course of action, Marine?”

Alex, his face impassive, rose from his seat and approached the cage. With practiced efficiency, he drew his K-bar, a combat knife, and delivered a single, precise strike between the bars to the creature’s head. Silence descended as the drone twitched once, then lay still.

Gunnery Sergeant Harris gestured to the cage. “Well done Private Torres!” She nodded at the DIs with the cage, “Now get that out of here,” she ordered, her gaze sweeping over the stunned students. “Remember, recruits, fear is the enemy’s weapon. Knowledge and discipline are yours.”

The bell rang, the harsh clang echoing through the classroom. As the students filed out, Wade stole a glance at Alex. The stoic facade remained, but a hint of something akin to pride flickered in his eyes. In that moment, Wade saw not just a fellow recruit, but a survivor, a warrior forged in the fires of his past tragedies.

The Making of a Marksman

The morning briefing delivered a new challenge – three weeks of advanced marksmanship and demolitions training. Wade could barely contain his excitement as they approached the firing range.

Rows of pulse rifles lined the weapon racks, their menacing forms glinting in the harsh sunlight. Beyond the firing line stretched a desolate landscape littered with scrap metal husks and crumbling debris – the remains of buildings, vehicles, and equipment obliterated by past explosive ordnance practice.

Sergeant Reyes, the chief weapons instructor, briefed them on safety protocols with a focus and intensity that bordered on reverence. His gnarled hands caressed the sleek lines of the pulse rifles with a familiarity born from years of use.

“These are your instruments of death,” he growled. “Respect them. Master them. They are what stand between you and oblivion on the battlefield.”

The air crackled with tension as the recruits moved to the firing line. Wade scooped up a rifle, the solid weight reassuring in his hands. He sighted down the barrel, the familiar dance of acquiring his target and controlling his breathing.

At Reyes’ command, they opened fire. The thunderous roar of the pulse rifles filled the air as brilliant azure bolts of energy lanced towards the targets. Wade’s world shrank to the front sight, his awareness honed to a razor’s edge as he walked the bursts across the plated figures.

Something primal awoke within him – not bloodlust, but a singular drive to achieve perfection. To fire true and straight, to send each bolt into the target. By the end of the first day, the butt of the rifle was searing against his shoulder, his palms blistered and calloused. But he didn’t care. All that mattered was the next shot.

Over the following days, they cycled through different marksmanship drills and ranges. Moving targets, alternating positions, structure windows, all to simulate battlefield conditions. The crackle of fire and concussive thumps of impact were the rhythms they marched to.

One day Briggs was up to his old tricks. When the DIs weren’t looking he rested the barrel of his smoking hot plasma rifle on the back of Wade’s neck. Wade let out an ear piercing scream as he recoiled away from the heat. “What’s going on over there?” one of the DIs belted. Briggs answered quickly, “Nothing Sergeant, Kovacs just stepped on a lunar viper and screamed like a little girl.” Wade glared at Briggs, writhing in pain but not wanting to rat out his fellow Marine. He would find a way to get back at Briggs soon enough. Briggs glanced at Wade with complete satisfaction with his practical joke that would have had him sent home packing had he been discovered.

Bigger Guns and Explosives

Then came the support weapons – heavy machine guns, grenade launchers, mortars. Utterly devastating but cumbersome and requiring disciplined crews to choreograph their lethal dance. They broke down and reassembled the fearsome squad automatics blindfolded until the process became second nature.

Finally, demolition instruction rounded out their education in controlled destruction. Mining charges, satchels, missile launchers – all tools to sunder fortifications and deny enemy troops sanctuary. In a carefully prepped range, Wade experienced the crushing overpressure of an artillery strike for the first time, the thunderous detonation rocking him to his core.

But the coup de grace was the line demolition range. Donning their heavy armor, they took turns calculating charge sizes, arming the explosive, and blasting through reinforced bunkers. The plasma explosive itself was a one “size-fits-all” sphere that fit in the palm of your hand. It had a primer dial on the top to set the desired parameter of force ranging from a simple grenade to a cratering charge that would make a hole in the ground as big as a football field. Wade will never forget the first time he set the explosive calibrator to max, set the timer and retreated into the protective bunker. They watch the charge go off through reinforced transparent steel. The blast completely devastated the small vehicle hulk it was placed under and sent shrapnel and dirt three hundred meters in every direction. It was the most impressive force any of them had ever seen. Wade let out a slow breath, relieved to be in the bunker.

Throughout the grueling training, Reyes and the other instructors were a constant, looming presence. Watchful eyes scrutinized every movement, every adjustment of their weapons. Harsh criticism was freely given, but so too was the occasional gruff nod of approval when a trainee displayed particular skill.

The days blurred into weeks in an endless cycle of shooting, reloading, adjusting sights, and detonating explosive charges. Tempers frayed from fatigue and the relentless pressure. More than once, Wade found himself nose-to-nose with Briggs and other recruits over a perceived slight or mistake.

But the shared adversity only strengthened the trio’s bond. In the bleary hours of forced rest, they helped each other clean weapons, massaged aching muscles, and traded the grim humor that allowed them to persevere.

As the final week of marksmanship training dawned, Wade felt a surge of pride as he looked at the performance scores. While not at the top, he, Mike, and Alex were solidly ranked among the best marksmen in the company. More importantly, they had mastered not just the weapons, but the discipline to bring that destructive potential to bear with precision.

Whatever the future held, whatever enemy they might soon face, Wade knew one thing – they were ready. These tools of war were in capable hands that would not fail when the final test came. A grim satisfaction settled over him as he cradled the rifle once more and sent a fresh salvo downrange to tear into the unforgiving Carthis landscape.

Brutal Ballet

Marine Martial Arts (MMA) was a brutal competition of hand to hand combat. The recruits were expected to fight without permanently injuring their opponents but they danced on the fine edge. The DIs watch every move. If they caught you taking it easy on your buddy, they would personally step in and show you “how it’s done.” Sweat streamed down Wade’s face as he grappled with his opponent, a wiry recruit named McKee. Each move felt instinctive, a primal dance of violence fueled by adrenaline and a healthy respect for the other fighter. Wade quickly pinned McKee in an arm bar and he tapped out.

The instructors, former Rangers with scars that spoke of countless battles, barked instructions and corrections. Their movements were a blur of deadly efficiency, a testament to years of honing their bodies into weapons.

Wade felt a surge of respect, a yearning to one day achieve such a level of mastery. But for now, survival was his primary concern. Then it happened, he was paired with Briggs, his nemesis. Briggs, fueled by an overly zealous level of aggression, landed a blow that sent a jolt of pain through Wade’s shoulder and put him on his back. Gritting his teeth, Wade sprung to his feet and countered, utilizing a maneuver he’d barely grasped moments ago.

He watched with stunned satisfaction as Briggs crumpled to the mat, the air knocked out of his lungs, he tapped out. The instructor overseeing their fight…a weathered veteran with a single cybernetic arm, grunted in approval. “Not bad, Kovacs. A little slow, but you’ll develop your technique. Keep that up.” Briggs glared at him with the obvious intent to get revenge.

The praise spurred Wade on. The next sparring session saw him paired against Mike. Their movements were a stark contrast to the brutal brawl with Briggs. Here, it was a dance of anticipation, of exploiting openings and reacting instinctively. They knew each other’s moves, having spent hours strategizing and practicing in the barracks after lights out. They knew not to take it easy on one another but at the same time they didn’t want to injure one another either. They threw in a bit of theatrics to convince the instructors they were serious. The DIs may not have fully bought the charade but let them go nonetheless.

The match ended in a breathless stalemate, neither gaining a clear advantage. They collapsed back on the mats, heaving for breath, but a grin stretched across both their faces.

“Nice moves, Wade,” Mike wheezed, extending a fist bump. “Almost got me there.”

“Not bad yourself, Mike,” Wade chuckled, returning the bump.

Suddenly, a shrill whistle pierced the air, a signal reserved for unexpected situations. The instructors tensed, exchanging a worried glance. Gunnery Sergeant Harris strode into the gym, her face grim.

“Listen up, maggots,” she barked, her voice leaving no room for argument. “There’s been a Skravak incursion on the perimeter. We’re sending a strike team. Volunteers only.”

A tense silence stretched through the room. Fear flickered in some eyes, but determination in others. Wade glanced at Mike and Alex, their faces stoic but resolute.

Without a word, they stepped forward, joining a small group of recruits who had answered the call. The instructors, a gleaming ray of respect in their eyes, began equipping them with combat armor and advanced weaponry.

Wade hefted the heavy pulse rifle in his hands, its familiar weight strangely comforting. Was this just part of the training or was this real? A sour taste rose in his mouth, he could feel his stomach and bowels tighten but it was overshadowed by a steely resolve. It was time to prove he had what it takes to be a real Marine.

Link to all Chapters – Text & Audio

Your eyes saw me when I was formless; all my days were written in Your book and planned before a single one of them began.

Psalm 139:16

The Pit

The ramp of the landing craft hissed shut, as the weary recruits of the Deep Space Rangers double-timed into Ramsey Station. All eyes were wide as they took in the unforgiving surface of Carthis 7. A desolate world stretched before them, sculpted by volcanic fury and bathed in the unforgiving glare of a binary sun. Dust swirled, stinging their eyes and coating their sweat-slick bodies as the Argus bounded into space with a roar leaving an eerie silence.

Before Wade could absorb it all, a booming voice shattered the silence. “Move it, maggots! You think you’re on a sightseeing tour?” The speaker was a mountain of a man, clad in olive drab armor that glinted in the harsh sunlight. His face, etched with battle scars, was dominated by a single, bright red scar that ran along the right side of his chin. Staff Sergeant Hathras, Wade learned later, was the epitome of a Drill Instructor – a walking embodiment of discipline and fear.

Hathras wasn’t alone. A pack of Drill Instructors descended upon the recruits, barking orders and shoving them into a semblance of formation. Hushed whispers broke out as the recruits recognized them – veterans hardened by years of fighting the intergalactic war against the Skravaks.

Hathras barked a final order, gesturing towards a large, sunken area ahead, Get in “The Pit!” They stumbled forward, legs weak from the cramped quarters of the Argus and the unfamiliar pull of Carthis 7’s lower gravity.

Reaching the Pit, Wade saw its brutal reality. A patch of sand, with the consistency of fine broken glass. The harsh sunlight glinted off the tiny particles, creating a blinding haze and every step kicked up dust as fine as talcum powder.

“Drop your civilian gear!” another DI roared. “On your face!” Confusion turned to panic as the recruits dove to a prone position on the rough sand. Wade wincing as his hands dug into the scorching shards.

Hathras’ voice cut through the chaos. “Roll right, maggots! Roll left! You think the Skravaks are gonna care about a little sand in your eyes?!”

Minutes turned into an eternity as they rolled left, right, up, down, push ups, jumping jacks, and then down again. Their clothes were shredded and the fine dust seeping into every crevice. Wade’s vision blurred, sweat stinging his eyes. His hands, raw and blistered, felt like sandpaper against his sweat-slick skin.

A choked sob escaped from beside him. A young woman, barely out of her teens, clutched her ripped sleeve, her face contorted in pain and humiliation. A nearby DI loomed over her, his voice dripping with disdain. “What’s wrong, little lady? Missing your mommy?” He shoved her roughly, sending her sprawling into the sand.

Wade’s face burned with a mix of anger and helplessness. Here, compassion was a weakness, a luxury they couldn’t afford. This was boot camp, Ranger style, and survival was the only game in town.

Gear Up

A whistle pierced the air, signaling the end of their ordeal in The Pit. They were herded towards a cluster of prefabricated buildings, the white paint already peeling under the relentless sun. Inside, a new kind of torture awaited them.

Gruff-looking civilian contractors, mirroring the DIs’ hostility, barked instructions as they were issued uniforms and equipment. The olive drab fatigues felt stiff and restrictive, a stark contrast to the worn jeans and graphic tees Wade was used to. Each piece of gear – the heavy body armor, the clunky helmet, the unfamiliar pulse rifle – weighed him down, a constant reminder of the new reality he had signed up for. The weapons, though intimidating, held a strange allure. They were tools, instruments of survival in this hostile world.

As he slung the pulse rifle across his back, the contractor barked, “Careful, sunshine. Don’t point that at your buddy unless you mean it.” He leered at Wade, his words laced with a dark humor.

Wade swallowed, meeting the contractor’s gaze. Fear danced on the edge of his vision, but something flashed within him – a spark of defiance. He wouldn’t be cowed, wouldn’t be another scared kid in the sand.

Across from him, Mike Jansen, a wiry kid with a mop of unruly brown hair, chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady for someone who looked like he could have just stepped out of high school. “They wouldn’t let us shoot each other… yet, anyways.”

Wade managed a half-smile. Jansen, ever the optimist, was a welcome sight in this sea of harsh reality.

The final stop was a metal podium where a woman stood, her arms crossed and face etched with a permanent scowl. Gunnery Sergeant Phoebe Harris, as Wade soon learned, was the Senior Drill Instructor. Compared to Hathras’ brute force, she was a different kind of predator – she was as calculated as a rattlesnake, her voice dripping with a lethal calm.

As they received dog tags, heads shaved, and were assigned their barracks, a streak of anxiety coursed through Wade. He’d heard stories about the barracks – cramped Quonset huts notorious for their suffocating heat and questionable plumbing.

Reality lived up to the rumors. Thirty bunks stacked three high, crammed into a stifling metal box, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and nervous sweat. The latrines were a communal nightmare, devoid of privacy and reeking of something far worse than disinfectant.

Despite the discomfort, Wade found solace in his bunkmates. Mike Jansen, his easygoing nature a welcome contrast to the harsh environment, and Alejandro Torres, better known as Alex, a quiet, stoic boy with eyes that seemed to hold a lifetime of unspoken stories.

Nightfall, when it arrived, brought no respite. The thin metal walls did little to block out the constant sounds of shouting and the rhythmic thud of boots against the sand. Sleep, when it came, was filled with fragmented dreams of alien landscapes and insectoid horrors.

The Carthis Forge

The first sunrise on Carthis 7 was a brutal awakening. A piercing whistle ripped through the barracks, jolting Wade out of a restless sleep. Muscles screamed in protest as he scrambled to his feet, a chorus of groans echoing around him.

They were herded outside by the ever-present DIs, the unforgiving sun already baking the sand. Ahead lay a massive obstacle course, a twisted metal jungle gym designed to test their physical and mental limits.

Staff Sergeant Hathras’ voice boomed, laying down the rules. Fastest time wins, slowest gets “special treatment.” The intended threat hung heavy in the air.

Fear turned Wade’s legs to lead. His lungs burned like fire as he navigated the course, the unfamiliar gravity throwing him off balance. He stumbled, scraped his knee, but pushed himself forward, fueled by a raw determination not to be the slowest.

He finished somewhere in the middle, his body a mess of sweat and grime. Others weren’t as fortunate. One recruit lay crumpled at the base of a wall, clutching his ankle, his face contorted in pain. Another, a hulk of a man, stood defiantly before Sergeant Hathras, refusing to budge after failing an obstacle. Hathras’ response was swift and brutal – a single punch sent the man sprawling, his face a bloody mess on the sand.

The rest of the day was a blur of activity – a grueling five-mile run across the unforgiving landscape, followed by hours of weapons drills under the scorching sun. Wade’s arms ached from the unfamiliar weight of the pulse rifle, his vision blurring with exhaustion.

As the day bled into twilight, they were subjected to what the DIs called “motivation sessions.” Standing under the gaze of the twin suns, they were barraged with brutal truths about the Skravak threat, about the sacrifices that had been made, about the lives hanging in the balance.

Staff Sergeant Hathras’ words were a twisted mix of patriotism and fear-mongering, designed to break their spirit and rebuild them as Marines. Wade felt a knot tighten in his stomach. The threat seemed more real now, the stakes higher than he’d ever imagined.

Later that night, huddled on his bunk in the stifling heat, a wave of exhaustion and uncertainty washed over Wade. He didn’t miss home like a normal recruit but he did miss the freedom he had back on Mars. Here, on Carthis 7, everything felt scripted, stifling, and hostile. From time to time he even wondered if he had made the right decision. The crushing weight of responsibility, the constant threat of failure, pressed down on him like the unforgiving gravity of the alien world.

A metallic clang echoed through the barracks, followed by the rhythmic thump of boots. Mike, his face streaked with grime but a hint of a smile playing on his lips, slid onto the bunk under him.

“Rough day, huh?” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yeah,” Wade admitted, his throat parched. “I thought I was ready for this, Mike.”

“Yeah man, it’s been crazy to be honest, but we’ll get through it.” Mike said with a confidence that belied his own exhaustion. “It’s gonna shred us, heh, but like the DIs say, “Pain is just weakness leaving the body.” They laughed together. “We just gotta keep pushing, keep reminding ourselves why we’re here.”

Wade stared up at the bottom of the third bunk above him, the harsh light from the hallway casting long shadows across the room. Images of his room in the cramped apartment and the halo-deck streaming news feeds. This wasn’t just about proving himself, about escaping the dead-end life that awaited him back on Mars. This was about getting in the fight, doing something meaningful, and proving his dad wrong.

“Yeah,” Wade finally said, his voice finding a new resolve. “We’ll get through it.”

The next morning, the now-familiar blare of the whistle ripped through the pre-dawn silence. Wade stretched his aching muscles, a dull ache throbbing in his head. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going, but he knew one thing – he had to keep pressing.

As he stepped outside into the harsh sunlight, squinting against the glare of the twin suns, a new determination burned in his eyes. Carthis 7 was a crucible, a forge designed to break the weak and mold the strong.

The Price of Failure

One day drifted into another. The confidence course became a daily torment. A web of ropes, walls, and precarious beams twisted into a sadistic test of agility and strength. Today, fear had a name – Private Sinclair. A wiry young man with terrified eyes who froze halfway across the swinging rope bridge. His panicked screams echoed through the training grounds as he dangled precariously above the sand.

Hathras’ response was swift and unforgiving. A barked order, a yank on the safety harness, and Sinclair plummeted with a sickening thud. He lay crumpled at the base, a bone protruding at an unnatural angle from his arm. The DIs wasted no time, dragging him away like a fallen Marine, leaving a crimson stain on the sand as a stark reminder of the consequences of failure.

The incident cast a pall over the rest of the day. The ever-present threat of injury, the constant pressure to excel, gnawed at Wade’s morale. The camaraderie forged with Mike offered a lifeline, their shared silent understanding a flicker of hope. But the pressures were not all external. Soon a more menacing insider would take his toll.

The Camp Bully

The mess hall echoed with clattering trays and clanging utensils as the recruits ate without a word. Kovacs, Jansen, and Torres stared at their mystery meat stew warily, shoulder to shoulder at the crowded table. Across the aisle, Private Briggs nudged his buddies, chin jutting towards the trio.

With a mischievous grin, Briggs loaded a hefty spoonful of lumpy mashed potatoes. In one swift motion, he flung the gloopy mass, nailing Kovacs square in the face and whispering…”Hey Kovacs. Didn’t your mommy teach you any manners?”

The steaming potatoes plastered Kovacs, gravy dripping down his reddening cheeks. He frantically pawed at his face, torn between humiliation and rage, as the scene caught Sergeant Ramerez’s attention.

“Quiet, crutes!” he barked, voice cutting through the commotion. “This ain’t no social club. Shut up, eat up, and get up. You got two minutes!”

As Wade continued scrubbing away the embarrassing mess, he could feel his temper rising. Briggs was going to pay for this. Mike leaned in, murmuring “Just let it go man, he’s not worth it.” But Alex shook his head. “Nah, you can’t let a punk like Briggs get away with that.”

Kovacs glared at the smirking Briggs. He was already concocting a plan for revenge. That jerk was going to get his, one way or another.

Desolation Run

Chow was followed by another five-mile run. It was a brutal trek across the alien landscape. The air, thin and dry, scraped at their lungs like sandpaper. The unforgiving sun beat down, turning the already oppressive heat into a relentless furnace. Each step felt like wading through molasses, their boots kicking up plumes of red dust that hung in the air like a perpetual haze.

Wade stumbled, the world blurring at the edges of his vision. His legs felt like lead weights, his throat parched. He glanced sideways to see Mike, face grim but determined, keeping pace beside him. A silent nod of encouragement from Mike was all it took to push Wade forward.

They finally crossed the finish line, collapsing onto the scorching sand in a heap of sweat and exhaustion. Around them, others staggered in, their faces contorted in pain, vomiting the last vestiges of lunch. One recruit, overcome by heat stroke, lay unconscious, his body convulsing. A team of corpsmen rushed forward, their arrival a stark reminder of the dangers they faced, even during seemingly mundane training.

Twisted Motivation

The evening brought the next schedule session of torture – the nightly motivational session. Gathered in the crowded hall, monitors posted on every wall, they were subjected to a barrage of propaganda videos detailing the Skravak threat. Repulsive, insectoid creatures swarmed human settlements, their clicking mandibles and glistening carapaces filling the screen. Images of burning cities and mutilated corpses flashed by, each one a hammer blow designed to instill fear into their hearts.

Hathras’ voice, amplified through loudspeakers, cut through the graphic imagery. He spoke of sacrifice, of bravery, of the burden they now carried as the last line of defense against an unstoppable enemy.

Wade felt a cold dread pool in his stomach. The videos, carefully curated to maximize shock value, painted a bleak picture of the war effort. Were they truly prepared for what awaited them on the front lines?

Then came the stories – tales of fallen Rangers, their heroism immortalized in grainy video clips. Each story was a carefully crafted inspiration, turning fear into a sense of duty, sacrifice into a badge of honor.

The Ranger Chaplain

Finally, another Sunday arrived, offering a precious one-hour break from the relentless grind of training. After morning chow, the recruits were allowed to attend the religious service of their choice or remain behind to clean the barracks. Wade had barely slept the night before, his mind a whirlwind of doubts and anxieties. He figured an hour at the chapel might help clear his head. Mike, ever the devout believer, never missed a Sunday service, no matter the circumstances. Torres tagged along, going through the motions of his Catholic upbringing more out of habit than genuine faith these days.

As they made their way toward the chapel, Private Briggs lounged on the stoop of his platoon’s hut, a sneer etched on his face. “Off to get your praise on with the God Squad?” he mocked. Torres brushed it off with a shrug, but Wade felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. He’d grown up without religion, and these habits were still new and unfamiliar to him, leaving him feeling self-conscious and out of place.

The dusty light filtered through the stained glass windows as Chaplain Jesse Bronson took his place at the lectern. Though his hair was fully gray and his lined face spoke of many years, he carried himself with a quiet strength that commanded respect. His warm brown eyes held a perpetual kindness that instantly put Wade and his buddies at ease. The chaplain had served as an enlisted Deep Space Ranger years ago; he was no stranger to the costs of war. Now, he helped these new recruits and the battle tested Drill Instructors alike carry their spiritual burdens.

Bronson’s rich voice filled the humble space as he spoke of the bravery and sacrifice of Jesus Christ, willingly going to the cross. “Our Lord was very familiar with hardship. He walked through suffering and death itself to pay for humanity’s sins. He took the bullet for us. He died a death to pay the penalty for our rebellion and demonstrated the ultimate act of valor.” The chaplain paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled men and women. “There’s only one time a Marine should ever surrender, and that is to God’s love and mercy. We will either surrender now or we will be forced to bow the knee in the final judgment. What will you Marines choose? His love today or His judgment tomorrow? It’s your choice.”

With challenging truth and firm empathy honed over decades of service, Bronson continued sharing the light despite having witnessed untold horrors. To Wade, he embodied a peace that could only come from the deepest faith in something greater than oneself. Perhaps that’s what he needed most now, as the doubts and fears threatened to overwhelm him. But he was not ready to fully commit to something he didn’t understand. His mind was already burdened with too much to process; it didn’t seem wise to add yet another weight to his rucksack. For now, he would enjoy the Sunday breaks and leave religion for later, when he had more time to relax and think about the “extraneous” things of life.

Link to all Chapters – Text & Audio

“If you have run with footmen and they have tired you out, then how can you compete with horses? If you fall down in a land of peace, how will you do in the thicket of the Jordan?”

Jeremiah 12:5

Bitter Farewells

The thrumming hangover pulsed in Wade’s head, a discordant symphony accompanying the Martian sunrise bleeding through the dusty window. Last night’s farewell party, fueled by poor decisions and a desperate need to forget, echoed in fragmented memories – forced laughter morphing into panicked scrambles as security patrol showed up before things got too out of hand. Saying goodbye to his friends, their voices thick with a mixture of sadness and envy, felt like tearing out a chunk of his soul. Now, alone in the cramped apartment, the weight of his decision settled upon him like a Martian sandstorm.

It was O4 hundred and he had to get his bearings. He could not afford to be late. Wade stumbled out onto the balcony, the cold thin air of the terraformed city nipping at his lungs. Below, the newly formed Martian ocean shimmered under the rising sun, its vastness both captivating and terrifying. This alien world, once a desolate canvas of reds and oranges, now held the promise of a new life, a life he’d dreamt of since he was a child playing amongst the rusty equipment of the local church playground. That playground, a stark contrast to the harsh beauty of this Martian landscape, seemed a lifetime ago.

As Wade slung his small gym bag over his shoulder and opened the door to leave, he was lost in thought. Before he had a chance to shut the door, a groan from behind jolted him back to the present. His father, Samuel, stood in the doorway, the familiar scowl etched deeper on his weathered face. The veteran Marine Regular stood looking at Wade with a bitterness that clung to him like the dust on an old uniform, Samuel had never approved of Wade’s obsession with the Deep Space Rangers and he never held back his criticism.

Their goodbye was a familiar dance of unspoken resentment. “When the crack of your backside is full of lunar dust and you’re half baked on some radioactive planet, remember, I told you, you should have been a naval weapons systems specialist,” Samuel spat, his voice laced with a barely concealed anger. Wade clenched his jaw, the sting of the jab mixing with a surge of defiance. He extended his hand, a silent plea for a semblance of respect. But Samuel, with a shake of his head, turned and simply shut the door behind him, leaving Wade alone with the fading echo of his words. He thought to himself in consolation, “Well, at least he got out of bed at zero dark thirty to insult me.” A ghost of a smile flickered across his face.

First Roll Call

Walking towards the familiar church playground, a pang of nostalgia hit him. It was once his haven, but seemed small and insignificant now. The neighborhood kids, once playmates, were now strangers embarking on their own paths. Here, amidst the remnants of his childhood, the weight of his decision threatened to consume him. Was this his destiny? This one-way journey into a future as vast and uncharted as the galaxy?

The pre-dawn Martian air hung heavy with a mixture of nervous anticipation and rocket fuel fumes. A sea of weary faces, sleep etched into their features, shuffled and mumbled amongst themselves as they awaited the O5 hundred roll call. Already, a handful of would-be Rangers had faltered, succumbing to doubt or fear. Their empty spaces in the line spoke volumes, a stark reminder of the unforgiving nature of their chosen path. Those deserters now faced a harsh reality – a life as a Marine Regular, or worse, a decade rotting in a military prison.

The booming voice of Staff Sergeant Harris sliced through the chatter like a plasma blade. The roll call, a blur of hollered names and mumbled responses, moved with ruthless efficiency. With the final recruit confirmed, Harris barked another order, her voice laced with a drill instructor’s signature blend of venom and challenge. “Double time, maggots! Let’s see if you can move faster than a crippled sandcrawler!”

A collective groan rippled through the ranks, but legs began to pump, soles pounding a staccato rhythm against the landing pad’s cold metal surface. The massive maw of the waiting transport loomed ahead, a gaping metal cave promising an uncertain future. As the line surged forward, Wade couldn’t help but feel a tremor of fear mixed with a surge of adrenaline. This was the point of no return. They were about to embark on a journey that would forge them, break them, or leave them somewhere in between. But one thing was certain: life as a civilian was a distant memory now. They were Rangers in the making, and Carthis 7 awaited.

The Argus – Transport of Agony

The ISC Argus was an aging interstellar transport ship, its hull streaked with charred entry scars and radiation pits from countless atmospheric insertions. Having been rebuilt and refitted dozens of times over its 120 years of service, it was an ungainly patchwork of mismatched hull components and battered hatches. Cylindrical living quarters modules cobbled together from salvage ringed the central cargo-turned-barracks bay, while twin Zürich ion drives flared angry blue from the rear motivators. The ship’s interior was a dimly-lit, claustrophobic maze of low corridors, access tunnels, and compact crew stations – all bathed in the pervasive stench of burned plasma conduits and recycled air. Clearly designed from the outset with pure utility rather than comfort in mind, the Argus was a fittingly spartan introduction to the harsh realities of life in the Marine Corps.

The Argus cut through the inky blackness of space with its newest crop of Marine recruits. Among them was Wade Kovacs, who had barely slept since boarding five days earlier.

Every minute was a new challenge, a new demand to push himself to the limits of physical and mental exhaustion. It had started at 05 hundred hours on day one, when the booming voice of Marine Drill Instructor Bronski had torn through the barracks.

“Alright, maggots, rise and shine!” the towering figure had bellowed, his face a mask of sneering disdain. “You had your last good night’s sleep, because from now on you live on my schedule!” 

What followed was a barrage of intense physical training, regulation familiarization, and the unrelenting psychological stress of constant ridicule and hazing by the DIs. Wade and the others were forced to recite mantras while holding excruciating poses, or do pushups until their arms gave out whenever they made the slightest mistake. The merciless push-up drills seemed to go on forever, with Drill Instructor Bronski pacing back and forth, his boots thudding inches from the recruits’ straining faces. Wade’s arms shook violently as he struggled to keep his body rigid, sweat pouring off him in sheets. He could feel the saltwater stinging his eyes as it streamed down from his soaked hair and brow. Beneath him, a slowly spreading puddle began forming from the deluge of perspiration dripping off his body. Wade groaned through clenched teeth, willing himself not to falter or collapse face-first into the small pond that was accumulating on the Argus’ metal deck.

The humiliations only escalated from there. At one point, they were herded into the ship’s tiny med-bay for what Wade could only describe as the most demeaning and invasive series of physicals, inoculations, and tests he had ever endured. He had never felt so violated, so stripped of his dignity and sense of self.

“Get used to it, worms!” one of the corpsmen had snarled as Wade squirmed under the needle delivering another burning inoculation cocktail. “You have no privacy, no rights other than what we allow. You belong to the Corps now.”

The Alien Enemy

But as miserable as the hazing and conditioning was, Wade found the long hours spent in darkened briefing rooms even more psychologically taxing. There, on crisp holographic displays, they studied every horrific detail of the Skravak forces – their biology, weapons, starships, interrogation methods, and combat tactics.

The Skravak were an imposing race, with slender but powerfully muscled frames standing over 7 feet tall on two digitigrade legs. Their bodies were hairless and smooth, a sickly grayish-green in coloration. But most unsettling was their heads that tapered smoothly to narrow, articulated points. At the end of each point was a circular, funnel-like aperture lined with fine cilia that constantly wavered and flexed as if tasting the air. Above this quivering lenses and sensor nodes – the creature’s eyes, ears and olfactory receptors all amalgamated into one unblinking, all-observing sensory nexus. 

Wade found himself gripping his restraints tightly, his hands slick with nervous sweat. How could anyone hope to combat such an efficient, implacable killing machine?

In place of a mouth, each of their four arms ended in a circular, puckered orifice lined with rows of long, razor-sharp teeth. During combat, the Skravaks would unleash spine-chilling screeches as these hand-mouths opened and their teeth gnashed wildly. Worse still were the brief glimpses recruits got of their feeding habits, as the vicious aliens used those same toothed appendages to tear into live prey.

What made the Skravaks truly terrifying was not just their grotesque anatomy, but their utter single-mindedness when engaged in battle. They were unhesitating, remorseless killers, utterly devoid of restraint or fear. To confront the Skravaks warband in close quarters was to stare into the face of oblivion – only the most rigorously trained warriors stood a chance of surviving such an encounter.

Wade winced as the holographic combat footage played out, unable to tear his eyes away from the gruesome scene unfolding. A squad of Marines was pinned down by withering plasma fire from a Skravak armored personnel carrier, the flickering blue bolts cutting through their ranks as they desperately tried to find cover.

One private wasn’t fast enough. A blast caught him square in the chest, instantly searing away his armor’s outer layer. The Marine went down hard, writhing in agony as smoke poured from the smoldering crater in his torso.

Then the Skravaks were upon them.

Wade’s stomach churned as the hulking aliens surged into view, their sinewy, multi-limbed forms a horrifying ballet of lethal grace. The handheld cameras captured every brutal detail in agonizing high definition – the gnashing of teeth, the sickening spray of crimson as the Skravaks’ monstrous “mouths” clamped down on helpless Marines. Limbs were wrenched free, bodies torn apart in a whirlwind of violence.

A young Marine nearby, his face a mask of sheer terror, clutched his rifle with trembling hands. Before he could even raise his weapon in defense, a Skravak lashed out with two of its powerful arms. Bony digits, inhumanly strong, clamped down on either side of the man’s head with a sickening crunch. The audio feed transmitted the horrifying crack of the Marine’s neck snapping with chilling clarity.

Wade felt bile rising in his throat. The alien casually lifted the lifeless corpse in the air, dangling it for a moment before ripping into it with its gaping toothy mouth. He could no longer hold back the tide of nausea. Doubling over, he vomited onto the steel deck, the sounds of carnage and inhuman screams a horrifying symphony in his ears.

Friend or Foe

Drill Instructor Bronski loomed over his heaving mass, a cruel sneer twisting his features. “You just earned yourself another two hours on the base plate tonight, maggot! You better get used to scenes like that, because your pretty little blue eyes are going to see plenty of the same!”

As the hateful laughter of the DIs echoed through the cramped briefing room, Wade wiped his mouth, a newfound resolve burning in his eyes. He would not break. He would become strong enough, hardened enough, to survive anything the Skravaks could throw at him.

Night after night, they were bombarded with a relentless barrage of alien atrocities, a kaleidoscope of violence that seared itself into Wade’s mind. It was a brutal education, a constant reminder of the monstrous enemy they were preparing to face.

To further complicate matters, they were expected to master a labyrinthine web of ranks, roles, and regulations that spanned the complex command structures of the Rangers, Marines, and the Navy. Failure to properly address a superior officer, or even a misunderstanding of the most subtle distinctions between rating insignias, could result in harsh punishment.

By the tenth night, his body a tapestry of aches and his spirit pushed to the brink, Wade felt like a marionette on the verge of collapse. Every muscle screamed in protest, and the never-ending psychological evaluations felt like a relentless mental meat grinder. As he lay on his thin bunk, exhaustion a heavy shroud over him, the dread of another surprise “motivation session” courtesy of the DIs gnawed at him. And all this before boot camp even began.

A crackle of static from the ship’s comm-panel shattered the oppressive silence. The announcement they had all been waiting for, weeks of grueling preparation culminating in this single moment.

“Attention on deck! Attention on deck! We will be making planetfall on Carthis 7 in approximately six hours. All recruits report to staging bay 16 for disembarkation prep at 0430 hours. That is all!”

Wade closed his eyes, the weight of exhaustion a constant companion. Yet, beneath the fatigue, a spark of exhilaration flickered to life. After endless days and sleepless nights being broken down and rebuilt into a uniform nothingness, all previous identity was lost. They were now a blank slate ready for reprogramming as seen fit by the Marine Corps. They were finally approaching their crucible. The crucible of boot camp, specifically designed to forge them into first Marines and then raw material for further training. At the end of this grueling gauntlet awaited the infamous “Dropship Insertion School,” the ultimate test that would determine their eligibility. And then, and only then, they would be allowed the privilege of undergoing the most challenging military training known to man, Deep Space Ranger Training. Those who faltered might be reassigned as Marine Regulars, a respectable path in itself, but a far cry from the elite ranks of the Rangers. Many more would likely wash out, being assigned to the less perilous confines of the Navy or entirely returning to civilian life.

A small smile tugged at the corners of Wade’s chapped lips as sleep, mercifully dreamless, began to claim him. In less than six hours, he would be setting foot on Carthis 7, the unforgiving bootcamp world. Here, he would either etch his name as a bootcamp graduate, or be utterly crushed under the weight of his own ambitions.

Carthis 7

A dull gray orb in the dimly lit observation deck windows, loomed ever larger as the Argus made its final approach. This harsh, desolate world would be his home for the next six grueling months.

As the Argus’ atmospheric thrusters flared, a fiery halo against the pitch blackness, Wade squinted through the observation window. Below, a spattering of lights winked on – Ramsey Station, the Ranger Regiment’s boot camp primary training outpost. Named after a legendary Ranger from Earth’s golden age, the 1970s and 80s, it sprawled before them like a heavily armored village. Compact and squat, the station was ringed by a motley crew of prefabricated habitats and garage bunkers, clinging to the tortured caldera of an ancient meteorite strike. Row upon row of landing pads fanned outwards from the central hub, a constant ballet of shuttles a testament to the relentless activity within.

The veteran DIs’ words echoed in Wade’s ears. Carthis 7, a harsh mistress, would become their new reality, their world, their very reason for being. Brutal heat, radiation storms that clawed at sanity, and dust clouds that choked the lungs – all were to be conquered through sheer grit and determination. Life here meant embracing a relentless existence, a crucible designed to forge them into the galaxy’s most self-reliant, indefatigable warriors.

As the Argus shuddered upon landing, its ramps extending with a hiss onto the baked Carthis surface, Wade sucked in a deep breath. He forced himself to exhale slowly, trying to quell the knot of dread twisting in his gut. Surviving Carthis 7 would be the first of three challenges to become a Ranger.

The newly formed recruits, a ragtag bunch of hopefuls, were herded off the ship and marched at a brisk pace towards the camp, their boots kicking up puffs of reddish dust. This was “home” for the next six months.

Link to all Chapters – Text & Audio

ENGLISH / ESPAÑOL

Welcome Back! Today, we’ll be looking at the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke to see how Jesus handled the capacity issues all aggressive disciple-makers will encounter.

So let’s dive in.

(Click here to get a copy of the Gospel Sync document) 

Matthew 8:28–34, Mark 5:1–20, Luke 8:26–39

When they sailed to the other side of the sea of Galilee, they arrived in the region of the Gerasenes (Gadarenes). As soon as Jesus got out of the boat and stepped ashore, He was met by two men with unclean spirits. These demon-possessed men came from the town. These men had been living in the tombs and had not worn clothing or lived in a house for a long time. Many times it had seized them, though they were often bound with chains and shackles. They had broken the chains and shattered the shackles and they could no longer be restrained and the demon drove them into solitary places. They were so violent, no one with the strength could subdue them or pass that way. Night and day in the tombs and in the mountains they kept crying out and cutting themselves with stones.

When they saw Jesus from a distance, they ran and fell on their knees before Him. And one shouted in a loud voice, “What do You want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? “Have You come here to torture us before the appointed time?” I beg You before God not to torture us!” For Jesus had already declared and commanded the unclean spirit, “Come out of these men, you unclean spirit!”

Jesus asked, “What is your name?” He replied, “My name is Legion, for we are many” (because many demons had gone into them). And the demons begged Jesus repeatedly not to send them out of that region or order them to go into the Abyss.

In the distance on a nearby hillside a large herd of pigs was feeding. So the demons begged Jesus, “If You drive us out, send us into the herd of pigs so that we may enter them.” He gave them permission and said “Go!” So the unclean spirits came out of the men and went into the pigs, and the whole herd (about two thousand) rushed down the steep bank into the sea and drowned in the waters.

When those tending the pigs saw what had happened, they ran off and reported this in the town and countryside, including the account of the demon-possessed men. So the whole town went out to meet Jesus and to see what had happened.

When they came to Jesus, they saw the man who had been possessed by the legion of demons sitting at Jesus’ feet, clothed and in his right mind; and they were afraid. Meanwhile, those who had seen it described what had happened to the demon-possessed men and how they had been healed and also to the pigs. Then all the people of the region of the Gerasenes begged Jesus to depart from them, because great fear had taken hold of them. So He got into the boat and started back.

But as He was getting into the boat, the man who had been possessed by the demons begged to go with Jesus. But Jesus would not allow him, but He sent him away, saying, “Go home to your own people,” He said, “and tell them how much the Lord God has done for you, and what mercy He has shown you.” So the man went away and began to proclaim throughout all Decapolis how much Jesus had done for him. And everyone was amazed.

My Thoughts 

There are several directions I’d love to head with this story. One is the difference we see in the Gospels between one or two demoniacs. Here’s a link to a good article on that. Or another is the overwhelming authority Jesus has over Satan and his minions. Here’s another article. But, what I would rather do is address a very common phenomena that all aggressive disciple-makers will eventually encounter but no one talks about; Jesus did not let the demoniac follow Him.

Wait!? What!? Jesus didn’t let a guy who was begging to be His disciple follow Him!? I thought we are supposed to disciple everyone we lead to Christ? In fact I’ve heard people say they quit sharing the gospel because they had so many people they were discipling, they couldn’t even take on one more. Discipling everyone you share the gospel with can become a capacity issue.

And that’s probably one of the reasons Jesus sent the man away to share his testimony with his family and friends; there was no room in the boat. After Jesus chose twelve, twelve it was. Not thirteen or fourteen. It was twelve for the duration of His ministry. Yes, we see the 70 (Luke 10:1) and the 500 (1 Corinthians 15:6) and even 5000 (John 6:1-14) but the twelve were His focus as the leadership cadre for the future. Jesus didn’t let sentiment or pastoral compassion get in the way of a strategic investment in a few. And remember, nobody loves people like Jesus. So we can’t say this selection of a few was mean or unloving. These men were given to Jesus by the Father (John 17:3) for the sake of concentrated leadership development in order to multiply His disciples and advance His kingdom.

And if we stay at it and persevere in sharing the gospel and follow up with those we lead to Christ, or recruit existing believers who are hungry for discipleship, we’ll eventually run into the same capacity problem. Do we stop sharing the gospel? No way! Jesus didn’t. He led a guy into the kingdom as He breathed His last on the cross. No, but we do need to know what our limits are for intentional relational follow-up in order to maintain our potency with the few God has given us to disciple and not sink the boat while we are at it. 

When our boat is full, we need to adopt a “catch and release” evangelism plan like Jesus did. “Catch and Release” refers to what fishermen do when they catch a fish and for various reasons they release it back in the water. For us as “Fishers of Men” we may catch a fish and for various reasons release them to the Holy Spirit. Keep sharing the gospel but if your boat is full don’t feel guilty about not discipling everyone you see.

My Story

I’ve told the story about how Deb and I recently led some young soldiers to Christ when we were sharing the gospel at Fort Sam Houston. We did some basic follow-up with the guys but very quickly realized we had bit off more than we could chew. We have a church in our home, a couple of online churches and are discipling a dozen people both locally and globally. We were maxed out! 

When the soldiers graduated from the combat medics course, they were reassigned to various Army posts around the country. We did our best to connect them with other disciple-makers at the location they were being stationed and then let them go. Had our “boat” not been full, we would probably have started a Zoom Church with them. But we recognized we were beyond our capacity and decided to practice “catch and release” evangelism. It took a lot of discipline because we had grown to love the four medics dearly, but for the sake of all the other leaders we were investing in, we had to let them go. 

Jesus has got them. We fully anticipate hearing the great things the Lord has done with them and through them, either in this life or the next. And as we speak, Deb and I are headed back to Fort Sam to share the gospel with some more soldiers. 🙂

Our Action Plan

Now we’ll look at some ideas on how to help us as disciple-makers keep sharing the gospel even though our boats are full.

• Do an in depth study of why and how Jesus selected the 12 with those you are discipling
• Do an in depth study of why and how the Apostle Paul selected his few future leaders
• Answer the question; “How do you help the many but train a few?”

Jesus modeled a strategic approach to evangelism and discipleship, focusing intensively on a select few while still sharing the gospel widely. As disciple-makers, we can follow His example by continuing to share the good news boldly, while recognizing our capacity limits and entrusting new believers to God’s care when our “boat” is full.

Index for all posts in the Gospel Sync Series

Evangelismo de Atrapar y Liberar – #83

¡Bienvenido! Hoy, veremos los Evangelios de Mateo, Marcos y Lucas para ver cómo Jesús manejó los problemas de capacidad que encontrarán todos los hacedores de discípulos agresivos.

Así que comencemos

Mateo 8:28–34, Marcos 5:1–20, Lucas 8:26–39

Vinieron al otro lado del mar, a la región de los gadarenos. Y cuando salió él de la barca, en seguida vino a su encuentro, de los sepulcros, un hombre con un espíritu inmundo,  que tenía su morada en los sepulcros, y nadie podía atarle, ni aun con cadenas.  Porque muchas veces había sido atado con grillos y cadenas, mas las cadenas habían sido hechas pedazos por él, y desmenuzados los grillos; y nadie le podía dominar.  Y siempre, de día y de noche, andaba dando voces en los montes y en los sepulcros, e hiriéndose con piedras.

Cuando vio, pues, a Jesús de lejos, corrió, y se arrodilló ante él.  Y clamando a gran voz, dijo: ¿Qué tienes conmigo, Jesús, Hijo del Dios Altísimo? Te conjuro por Dios que no me atormentes.  Porque le decía: Sal de este hombre, espíritu inmundo. 

Y le preguntó: ¿Cómo te llamas? Y respondió diciendo: Legión me llamo; porque somos muchos.  Y le rogaba mucho que no los enviase fuera de aquella región.  Estaba allí cerca del monte un gran hato de cerdos paciendo.  Y le rogaron todos los demonios, diciendo: Envíanos a los cerdos para que entremos en ellos.  Y luego Jesús les dio permiso. Y saliendo aquellos espíritus inmundos, entraron en los cerdos, los cuales eran como dos mil; y el hato se precipitó en el mar por un despeñadero, y en el mar se ahogaron.

Cuando los que cuidaban a los cerdos vieron lo que había sucedido, huyeron y lo informaron en la ciudad y el campo, incluido el relato de los hombres poseídos por demonios. Así que toda la ciudad salió al encuentro de Jesús y a ver lo que había sucedido.

Vienen a Jesús, y ven al que había sido atormentado del demonio, y que había tenido la legión, sentado, vestido y en su juicio cabal; y tuvieron miedo. Y les contaron los que lo habían visto, cómo le había acontecido al que había tenido el demonio, y lo de los cerdos.  Y comenzaron a rogarle que se fuera de sus contornos.

Al entrar él en la barca, el que había estado endemoniado le rogaba que le dejase estar con él.  Mas Jesús no se lo permitió, sino que le dijo: Vete a tu casa, a los tuyos, y cuéntales cuán grandes cosas el Señor ha hecho contigo, y cómo ha tenido misericordia de ti.  Y se fue, y comenzó a publicar en Decápolis cuán grandes cosas había hecho Jesús con él; y todos se maravillaban.

Mis Pensamientos 

Hay varias direcciones que me encantaría tomar con esta historia. Una es la diferencia que vemos en los Evangelios entre uno o dos endemoniados. Aquí hay un enlace a un buen artículo sobre eso. Otra es la abrumadora autoridad que Jesús tiene sobre Satanás y sus secuaces. Aquí hay otro artículo. Pero lo que preferiría hacer es abordar un fenómeno muy común que todos los hacedores de discípulos agresivos eventualmente encontrarán, pero del que nadie habla; Jesús no permitió que el endemoniado lo siguiera.

¿¡Espera!? ¿¡Qué!? ¿¡Jesús no permitió que un tipo que rogaba ser su discípulo lo siguiera!? ¿Pensé que se suponía que debíamos discipular a todos los que conducimos a Cristo? De hecho, he escuchado a personas decir que dejaron de compartir el evangelio porque tenían tantas personas a las que estaban discipulando, que ni siquiera podían aceptar una más. Discipular a todas las personas con las que compartes el Evangelio puede convertirse en un problema de capacidad.

Y esa es probablemente una de las razones por las que Jesús envió al hombre a compartir su testimonio con su familia y amigos; no había espacio en el bote. Después de que Jesús eligió doce, fueron doce. No trece o catorce. Fueron doce durante la duración de su ministerio. Sí, vemos los 70 (Lucas 10:1) y los 500 (1 Corintios 15:6) e incluso los 5000 (Juan 6:1-14), pero los doce eran Su enfoque como un cuadro de liderazgo para el futuro. Jesús no permitió que el sentimiento o la compasión pastoral se interpusieran en el camino de una inversión estratégica en unos pocos. Y recuerda, nadie ama a las personas como Jesús. Así que no podemos decir que esta selección de unos pocos fuera mala o poco amorosa. Estos hombres fueron entregados a Jesús por el Padre (Juan 17:3) con el fin de concentrar el desarrollo del liderazgo con el fin de multiplicar a sus discípulos y hacer avanzar su reino.

Y si nos mantenemos firmes y perseveramos en compartir el evangelio y hacemos un seguimiento de aquellos a quienes guiamos a Cristo, o reclutamos creyentes existentes que están hambrientos de discipulado, eventualmente nos encontraremos con el mismo problema de capacidad. ¿Dejamos de compartir el evangelio? ¡No es posible! Jesús no lo hizo. Él guió a un hombre al reino mientras exhalaba su último aliento en la cruz. No, pero sí necesitamos saber cuáles son nuestros límites para el seguimiento relacional intencional con el fin de mantener nuestra potencia con los pocos que Dios nos ha dado para discipular y no hundir el barco mientras estamos en ello.

Cuando nuestro barco está lleno, debemos adoptar un plan de evangelismo de “atrapar y liberar” como lo hizo Jesús. “Atrapar y Liberar” se refiere a lo que hacen los pescadores cuando capturan un pez y por diversas razones lo dejan ir de nuevo al agua. Para nosotros, como “pescadores de hombres”, podemos pescar un pez y, por diversas razones, liberarlo al Espíritu Santo. Sigue compartiendo el evangelio, pero si tu barco está lleno, no te sientas culpable por no discipular a todos los que veas.

Mi Historia

He contado la historia de cómo Deb y yo recientemente guiamos a algunos jóvenes soldados a Cristo cuando compartíamos el evangelio en Fort Sam Houston. Hicimos un seguimiento básico con los chicos, pero muy rápidamente nos dimos cuenta de que habíamos mordido más de lo que podíamos masticar. Tenemos una iglesia en nuestra casa, un par de iglesias en línea y estamos discipulando a una docena de personas tanto a nivel local como global. ¡Estábamos al máximo!

Cuando los soldados se graduaron del curso de médicos de combate, fueron reasignados a varios puestos del Ejército en todo el país. Hicimos todo lo posible para conectarlos con otros hacedores de discípulos en el lugar donde estaban estacionados y luego los dejamos ir. Si nuestro “bote” no hubiera estado lleno, probablemente habríamos comenzado una iglesia Zoom con ellos. Pero reconocimos que estábamos más allá de nuestra capacidad y decidimos practicar el evangelismo de “atrapar y liberar”. Se necesitó mucha disciplina porque habíamos llegado a amar mucho a los cuatro médicos, pero por el bien de todos los demás líderes en los que estábamos invirtiendo, tuvimos que dejarlos ir.

Jesús los tiene. Esperamos escuchar las grandes cosas que el Señor ha hecho con ellos y por medio de ellos, ya sea en esta vida o en la próxima. Y mientras hablamos, Deb y yo nos dirigimos de regreso a Fort Sam para compartir el evangelio con algunos soldados más. 🙂

Nuestro Plan de Acción

Ahora veremos algunas ideas sobre cómo ayudarnos como hacedores de discípulos a seguir compartiendo el evangelio a pesar de que nuestros barcos están llenos.

• Hacer un estudio profundo de por qué y cómo Jesús seleccionó a los 12 con aquellos a quienes está discipulando
•  Estudiar a fondo por qué y cómo el apóstol Pablo seleccionó a sus pocos futuros líderes
• Responde a la pregunta: “¿Cómo ayudas a muchos pero entrenas a unos pocos?” 

Jesús modeló un enfoque estratégico para el evangelismo y el discipulado, centrándose intensamente en unos pocos elegidos sin dejar de compartir el evangelio ampliamente. Como hacedores de discípulos, podemos seguir su ejemplo al continuar compartiendo las buenas nuevas con valentía, mientras reconocemos nuestros límites de capacidad y confiamos a los nuevos creyentes al cuidado de Dios cuando nuestro “bote” está lleno.

Traducción de Norma Klingler

The mind of man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps.

Proverbs 16:9

Call to Arms

In a cramped Martian hab-unit on the outskirts of Nopylen colony, Wade Winston Kovacs, a scrawny 15-year-old with wide blue eyes, hunches over a holographic projector. Sunlight filters weakly through the dust-streaked window, casting long shadows across the room. Wade dialed up the news feeds he had watched fifty times in the last week displaying brutal interstellar battles.

The holographic projection crackled with electric whine as Wade leaned closer, mesmerized by the scene flickering to life mere inches from his face. This latest model incorporated cutting-edge sensory tech, bringing the battle to life with startling realism. Micro air jets simulated explosive shockwaves, while olfactory modules released the acrid scent of scorched metal. Targeted infrared emitters even replicated the searing heat of plasma bursts, making Wade flinch instinctively.

The video revealed streaks of scorching plasma lanced across the battered hull of the Colonial battlecruiser Intrepid, leaving trails of molten scars. The ship’s shields pulsed with a fierce orange glow, strained to the limit as they repelled the relentless assault. Shockwaves rippled outward in concentric rings with each deafening impact, the overwhelming roar seeming to buffet Wade’s slender frame.

He could taste the acrid tang of burnt metal as sleek, emerald-hued Skravak missiles screamed towards their target, carving a deadly path through the inky blackness. The first volley slammed into the Intrepid’s flank with a blinding detonation that momentarily whited out the image.

When Wade’s vision cleared, his eyes widened in horror. Six gaping holes marred the side of the massive ship, spewing plumes of superheated atmosphere and debris. Tiny figures, men and machines alike, were ejected into the void like shrapnel in the blink of an eye.

The merciless barrage showed no signs of letting up. Fresh waves of missiles converged on the crippled warship from all directions. Blinding beams of plasma seared across Wade’s retinas as the Intrepid’s reactor overloaded in a single, earth-shattering explosion.

The blast wave surged outward with ferocious violence, whipping Wade’s hair back even through the projector’s shimmering static. All that remained in the endless void was a dissipating cloud of gas and twisted metal debris tumbling into oblivion.

Wade inhaled a ragged gasp as the projector sputtered and switched to the next scene with a burst of static. His senses were instantly bombarded by a cacophony of whipcrack concussions of superheated plasma bolts and electrifying buzz from static discharges ricocheting and whizzing past the shaky camera lens.

An armored Marine regular, his face obscured by an amber-tinted visor, charged through a war-torn cityscape on Epsilon Eridani IV. Flames licked at the gutted remains of towering ferrocrete buildings, their skeletons leaning precariously at sharp angles amidst swirling black smoke and dust. Snatches of pale sunlight pierced through the devastation, filtering in like bloody blades.

Up ahead, two crumpled Marine bodies lay motionless on the ground, one a horrifying mass of shredded flesh with legs mangled beyond recognition. The Marine pushed the corpses aside with a sickening thud, his armored bulk surging forward with surprising agility.

That’s when it emerged from the rubble – a terrifying, skeletal figure with crimson eyes devoid of pupils. Its wiry, insectoid limbs propelled it forward with an unsettling, almost liquid-like gait.

A Skravak warrior. Its gaping maw displayed a disturbing array of razor-sharp teeth. Jagged bony ridges and calcified horns framed this rictus grin of pure malice as it launched itself at the camera with terrifying speed, a frenzy of hooked talons flashing in the dim light.

Wade flinched as the Marine unloaded his plasma rifle directly into the onrushing horror. Scorched flesh seared from the Skravak’s exoskeleton in blackened chunks, yet it seemed impervious to the onslaught, driven forward by a monstrous determination. The closer it came, the more the Marine’s shots were hitting their mark.

Then, with a sickening crunch, the skeletal monstrosity collapsed to the street. It’s forward momentum left a black trail of blood streaked on the pavement. As the creature collided with the Marine, obscuring the camera view in a swirling storm of appendages and gnashing teeth, Wade recoiled. For several seconds there was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the soft hiss of static dancing across the obscured camera which lay completely dark. Then, to Wade’s great amazement and relief, the Marine unburied himself from the lifeless alien and stood to his feet.

Slumping back, Wade gulped desperately for air, the stale air of the colony hab-unit burning in his lungs. The Skravak’s horrifying visage remained etched in his mind – a chilling reminder of the alien menace lurking beyond humanity’s fragile grasp.

Finally, the victor’s image flickered into view – Wade caught a glimpse of the insignia on the Marine’s armor. A blue and green shield crossed by a red lightning bolt with a white sun and star in opposite quadrants. This was no Marine Regular. This trooper was a legendary Deep Space Ranger. Wade felt a spark ignite within him as he locked eyes with the emblem. Every hardship and sacrifice endured by the Rangers became a tangible legacy, a lineage connecting with his soul.

Obsession’s Grip

The emblem seemed to thrum with a faint, golden light, casting an ember-like glow on Wade’s features. In that moment, a burning resolve crystallized within him. He wouldn’t be a passive observer, cowering in the shadows while humanity fought for its survival on some dusty Martian colony. This was his calling, his chance to join the ranks of those who carved humanity’s destiny among the stars, no matter the cost.

Watching the news feeds this time didn’t elicit fear, but a cold defiance that hardened in his gut. Humanity wouldn’t be cowed into extinction. Not while he and others like him stood ready to fight alongside the Rangers, the elite vanguard leading the charge against the horrors that lurked in the vast expanse of space.

Fists clenched, his newfound purpose surged through him like a white-hot fire. He would achieve the impossible. He would become one of those legendary, deathless guardians, or die trying.

Over the next few months, Wade became consumed by the lore and tactics of the Deep Space Rangers. His cramped quarters morphed into a shrine dedicated to their operations. Every square inch was plastered with tactical diagrams, alien creature profiles, reconnaissance photos, and historical reports. He haunted the colony’s data archives with an obsessive fervor, downloading and cross-referencing terabytes of intel on Ranger deployments until his personal terminal strained under the sheer volume of information. This virtual world of battle reports and declassified missions became his lifeblood.

He devoured details of the Rangers’ initiation gauntlet – a grueling 9-month training program that separated the elite few from the countless washouts and broken souls who dared to try. From enduring vacuum exposure tests to mastering zero-gravity combat and boarding actions, Wade absorbed every detail of the excruciating phases into his memory.

The Ranger Heritage

The Deep Space Rangers were the ultimate warriors, their roles encompassing the full spectrum of interstellar operations. They were the wardens of the infinite blackness, venturing far beyond humanity’s farthest outposts to confront unknown threats. While Marine Regulars defended established colonies, the Rangers undertook the most perilous reconnaissance missions and daring raids, striking directly into the heart of hostile alien territories.

All special operations units had long since vanished with the Military Consolidation Act of 2362. The military forces of the Interstellar Sovereign Confederation underwent significant restructuring to enhance efficiency and adapt to interstellar warfare. Inspired by the United States military, key changes included integrating naval, air, and space forces into a unified Interstellar Navy and replacing the Army with an expanded Interstellar Marine Corps. All special operations units from the 22nd century like the Navy SEALs, Delta Force, Green Berets, SAS, Spetsnaz, Sayeret Matkal, and Airborne Rangers were consumed into one elite fighting force called the Deep Space Rangers under command and control of the Marine Corps.

The newly formed Deep Space Ranger Regiments inherited their name through a rich lineage steeped in exploration and frontier defense. The term “Ranger” itself boasts a diverse etymology, tracing its roots back to the Old French word “ranger,” signifying “to arrange or set in order.” Initially, Rangers were individuals tasked with maintaining order and managing vast swathes of land.

In England, Rangers patrolled the royal forests, safeguarding wildlife and ensuring the health of game populations. Their expertise honed their skills in tracking and hunting, vital for survival in the wild. Similarly, Scottish Rangers upheld law and order in rural regions, fostering peaceful communities amidst the untamed wilderness. Across the Atlantic, European colonists in North America adopted the term for skilled woodsmen who navigated the treacherous landscapes, protecting fledgling settlements from the dangers of the frontier.

This tradition of wilderness expertise continued from the 18th to the 22nd centuries, with groups like Rogers’ Rangers, Mosby’s Rangers, various Ranger Battalions during World War II, Ranger Companies during Korea and Vietnam, and the 75th Ranger Regiment employing similar tactics of reconnaissance, raiding, and survival in unforgiving environments. Now these elite Marines were the ultimate hybrid of spartan like warrior, scientist, and pioneer. The Rangers of the Interstellar Sovereign Confederation, tasked with safeguarding the frontiers of human civilization amongst the stars, carry this legacy with pride.

A Father’s Lament

Wade knew simply memorizing data wouldn’t secure his place among these legendary beings. Over the following weeks, he pushed his body and mind to their absolute limits with a borderline-psychotic training regimen.

Pre-dawn calisthenics and parkour drills became a daily ritual, his lanky frame slowly hardening with muscle. He pounded the ochre dunes ten kilometers beyond the Nopylen perimeter every evening, a desperate attempt to condition his lungs to the thin Martian air that left him dizzy and nauseated.

No sacrifice felt too extravagant. His entire being became dedicated to forging himself into the perfect instrument of Ranger capability. He devoured advanced courses in astrophysics, Skrav-linguistics, advanced first aid, and cryptanalysis – anything that could give him an edge. Sleep became a luxury he could ill-afford, his mind and body a crucible fueled by unwavering determination. Even meals were meticulously optimized for maximum efficiency, every bite a calculated step towards his singular goal.

His unwavering dedication wasn’t lost on his only remaining family – his father, Samuel. A former Colonial Marine Regular, Samuel had lost his leg and a part of himself fighting the Skravaks decades ago. The bitterness of those battles had calcified his spirit, leaving him deeply cynical towards military service.

One evening, as Wade prepped protein shakes between grueling workout sets, Samuel slammed his fist on the counter with a shocking crash. He eyed his son with anger and locked onto his son’s determined face etched with the marks of intense training.

“Don’t do this to yourself, son,” Samuel rasped, his voice rough with unspoken emotions. “This path… it’ll break you. It’ll turn you into a cold, empty shell. Is that what you want?”

Wade remained focused, his jaw set with unwavering resolve. He knew arguing with his father’s hardened cynicism was pointless.

“The Skravaks took your leg and almost everything else, Dad. I won’t let them steal humanity’s future among the stars. This is my choice.”

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft whirring of Samuel’s cybernetic leg as its servos strained under the weight of his unspoken emotions. Finally, Samuel turned away, his shoulders slumped in defeat, and trudged back to his workbench with a resigned sigh.

“Just… be careful, son,” his voice came back, quieter this time, laced with a hint of paternal fear. “Those eyes… they hold a bottomless pit of malice. Don’t get lost staring into the abyss.”

Wade understood the cryptic warning. He knew the toll this life could take, the chilling numbness that could creep in over time, hardening a soldier’s heart against the horrors witnessed on countless battlefields. But for now, the prospect of joining the Rangers, of becoming a beacon of hope in humanity’s darkest hour, burned too brightly to be extinguished. Wade was young and idealistic. He would soon find that there was a kernel of truth in his dad’s harshness.

Unfolding Resolve

Finally, two weeks after his 17th birthday, the day came that Wade had been desperately seeking. The Deep Space Ranger recruitment shuttle touched down in the fading sunlight of Nopylen. A sharp series of bullhorn calls echoed through the streets, drawing a crowd of hopefuls to the landing pads. Wade was the first to shove his way to the front of the line, application data-slate clenched tightly in one hand, while his other fiddled nervously with the recruitment token. A look of intense, blazing determination burned behind Wade’s clear blue eyes as the stern-faced officer evaluators emerged from the armored shuttle craft and descended down its lowered ramp.

As the knot of recruits bunched closer together, the imposing figure of Lieutenant Darris Venn stepped forward, his tan Rangers’ beret cocked at a severe angle. Venn’s craggy features seemed even more intimidating thanks to the cybernetic implants surrounding his left eye.

The veteran officer slowly paced in front of the assembled young would-be Rangers, his gaze sweeping over them with blatant disdain. When his cybernetic eye fixed upon Wade at the front and his other eye awkwardly panned the crowd, the lieutenant paused, almost seeming to sneer. He snatched Wade’s data-slate from his hand and started to read.

“Well, well…Mister Kovacs,” Venn growled in a deep baritone accent. “According to your file, you’re just 17 years old, kid. I feel I’d be remiss if I didn’t remind you of just how soul-crushingly demanding the path to becoming a Ranger truly is. More than 80% of recruits wash out before they even reach the dropship insertion course, let alone Ranger training. And those are just the first steps.”

Wade swallowed hard but kept his chin raised, meeting Venn’s intense stare. “I understand the challenges I’ll face, sir. But I am ready – physically, mentally, and in every other way that matters. Becoming a Deep Space Ranger has been my calling, my sole purpose, for years now. All I ask is a chance to prove myself worthy.”

Venn’s cybernetic eye flashed as its scanner traced over Wade’s data readouts.

“Well, just as I thought – you’re a high school dropout. Right there, that’s already a major strike against you, son.”

Wade tensed but kept his voice measured and respectful.

“With all due respect, Lieutenant, my skills and areas of personal study go far beyond the standard academic curriculum. I’ve dedicated countless hours to astrophysics, Skravak-bio, survival and combat tactics – every field a prospective Ranger needs to master. My aptitude scores are off the charts. I can easily test out of any academic admission requirements.”

Venn’s craggy features twisted into an expression of profound skepticism.

“It’s not just about book smarts, maggot. We need disciplined, hard-baked marines who can follow orders, maintain attention to detail, and operate by the book to the highest standards in the most extreme conditions for weeks, even months at a time. The Rangers aren’t some school for dilettante thrill-seekers looking for kicks. You think way too highly of yourself boy!”

Wade’s jaw clenched, but before he could respond, Venn had already turned to move on down the line, his gravelly voice projecting out dismissively.

“Just another bright-eyed kid out for some glory and adventure. Thinks he’s got what it takes by watching a few training vids and–”

“Sir!”

The single barked word exploded out of Wade’s chest with enough intensity to cut Venn off mid-sentence. The lieutenant spun around, his implant flashing as every head in the grouped recruits snapped towards the source of the sudden outburst in shock. Wade could see the officer’s jaw tighten in anger at the interruption, but he had to make his case.

 “I’ve been preparing myself, body, soul, and mind for the last two years specifically for this chance to join the fight. You have my files, my scores, my accomplishments. I’m ready to prove my worth.”

For a long moment, Venn simply stared at Wade, as if weighing every fiber of the young man’s being. Finally, he gave the slightest nod.

“Very well, recruit. You’ll get your chance to prove yourself worthy of joining our ranks. But I promise you here and now, there is no place among the Deep Space Rangers for a man who can’t hack it.”

Wade matched Venn’s intense gaze, his voice firmly resolute.

“Then I will be that man, sir. I cannot fail.”

The lieutenant held the stare for a few more seconds before turning sharply and barking over his shoulder.

“Move your carcass to that sergeant on the ramp and report for intake protocol, Kovacs! You ship out at O5 hundred tomorrow, and from this moment your hide belongs to the Corps. We’ll see if you have what it takes, or if you just end up another washout.”

As Venn stormed off, Wade felt his heart pounding with anticipation. He ran at a double-time and handed his recruitment token to the sergeant. He had made it past the first crucible. Now the real challenges would begin. But he was determined to confront any trial, any hardship, to join the elite ranks of the Deep Space Rangers. For Wade, there was no other path – his destiny awaited among the stars, destroying an advancing enemy.

Failure was not an option.

Link to all Chapters – Text & Audio

NYC

 Mark and Megan are missionaries in New York City, actively engaged in their church’s exploration of the identity and purpose of the church. To connect with the community, they have been organizing outreach events centered around basketball and soccer.

Pray that Mark and Megan will find 4th Soil people to invest in and see the Kingdom of God advance in NYC.

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Team Japan

David (second from the top left) and his co-laborers are witnessing Japanese individuals coming to faith in Christ and being baptized almost weekly. If you are familiar with the gospel in Japan, you know this is nothing short of miraculous.

Please pray for more Japanese people to come to faith in Jesus and for the multiplication of disciples and churches.

David has developed a straightforward, Christ-centered approach to articulating our ministry philosophy, which he refers to as Vision, Posture, and Path. Below are a couple of videos that can help clarify our mission and the motivation behind our ministries.

• Introduction to Vision, Posture, and Path
• VPP Discovery Tool

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Latin America

Bob has mentored a missionary named Geo in Chile. He recently led a Gospel Conversation Training that is equipping new laborers to effectively share their faith. The training includes teaching participants how to present their testimonies in just 1-2 minutes, simulating real-life scenarios through a practice format reminiscent of “speed dating.” :) This approach introduces a bit of chaos and nervousness, mirroring what they might encounter in actual conversations. Participants benefit from multiple practice rounds, enhancing their confidence and skills.

Please pray for boldness among these new laborers and for them to connect with “fourth soil” people—those who are open and receptive to the Gospel message.

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 Our 40th Wedding Anniversary

Deb and I traveled to Anchorage, Alaska for a family reunion and to renew our wedding vows. This was the first “wedding” our grandkids had ever attended. Our sons and daughters-in-law went the extra mile to make the celebration one of our most cherished memories.

Please pray for their marriages, that they will experience the same faithfulness and joy that we have.

Prayer for September 2024

1. Praising God for saving us from our sins – Matthew 1:21
2. That we would help people find the real King – Matthew 2:2-3
3. That we would do “what is fitting to fulfill all righteousness” – Matthew 3:15
4. That we would fight temptation with the Word of God – Matthew 4:4,7,10
5. That we would be quick to reconcile conflict – Matthew 5:23-25
6. That we wouldn’t worry and trust God for tomorrow – Matthew 6:34
7. That we would be wise doers of the Word – Matthew 7:24
8. That we would trust in Jesus’ protection – Matthew 8:24
9. That we would diligently pray and train laborers for the harvest – Matthew 9:36-38
10. That our great aim would be to glorify God by becoming like Jesus – Matthew 10:24-25
11. That we would find our rest and comfort in Jesus – Matthew 11:28-30
12. That we would be very careful how we use our words – Matthew 12:36-37
13. That we would ask Jesus good questions to unlock the mysteries of the kingdom – Matthew 13:10-12
14. That we would spend adequate time in solitude with the Father – Matthew 14:23
15. That we would break away with those we are discipling for rest and concentrated time – Matthew 15:21

Our Co-Laboring Friends

• Wes & Tina – Alaska
• Merari – Egypt
• Kim – Egypt (Jubilee) 
• Grant and Taylor – Texas
• Alex and Morgan – Texas
• Mike & Perla – Texas
• Diana – Texas
• Jeff and Joy – Texas
• David & Danielle – Texas & Japan
• Bob & Mary – Ecuador 
• Berk & Barbara – North Carolina
• Mark & Megan – NYC
• Brett and Abigail – Germany
• Jonathan & Tatianna – Bangladesh 
• Ryan and Fastina – Pakistan
• Jim & Rolinda – Georgia