brysonhaden-blog-blog

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My Papaw was a one-of-a-kind legend. He was a BIG man.. I’m talking about a guy who could’ve worn a recliner as a shoe—but he had the soul of a teddy bear who’d been to Sunday school. I have so many fond memories of him and Mamaw from when we were growing up. Especially during those years when we lived outside of Mississippi, in different states. They’d pull up in that RV like they were parking a spaceship, and just live in our yard. Not for a weekend. Not even a week. No, friend—for weeks, sometimes months. It was like redneck summer camp meets retirement village—and it was awesome.

And boy howdy, do I have stories.

Let me start with one that didn’t even happen in another state—it happened right in our hometown of Columbia, Mississippi. Now, Papaw, for all his size, had this way of slouching down in his pickup truck like he was trying to sneak up on a nap. So from the outside, you wouldn’t realize you were looking at a man who could arm wrestle a grizzly bear and win by persuasion.

One fine day, he was posted up at the Sonic Drive-In, working on a burger like it owed him money. And, well, Papaw was not what you’d call a “neat” eater. Mustard had colonized on his chin like it had plans for expansion.

A carload of teenage punks rolled up beside him, and one of ‘em… with all the wisdom of a high school sophomore and the survival instincts of a moth in a bug zapper, leaned out and said, “Hey mister, you got mustard on your chin!”

Papaw didn’t say a word.

He just slowly opened the door of his truck, unfolded all six-foot-something of his “don’t-test-me” frame, and ambled over to that car like he had all day and zero tolerance. He leaned in on the open window, looked at the kid dead in the eyes and, in the calmest, most Southern gentleman voice you’ve ever heard, asked:

“Would you like to wipe it off?”

That was it. That’s all he said. And it was game over. Those boys tore outta there like the coney dogs were haunted. Never saw them again. I like to think they still get nervous when they drive past a Sonic.

Papaw had a way of saying things that weren’t all that funny on paper… but when you factored in his size, his delivery, and his zero-tolerance policy for nonsense ..it was comedy gold. Like the time my older brother asked him, “Papaw, what would you do if I hit you in the head with a hammer?”

His answer? “You do, and I ever find out about it, there’s gonna be trouble.”

Classic Papaw. Calm. Collected. Slightly terrifying.

Fast-forward a few years to Murfreesboro, Tennessee. I was about 13, and Papaw and Mamaw had rolled up in their RV to stay for a while. During that season, we did what any Southern family would do for entertainment.. we went to yard sales like it was a sport. Estate sales, rummage sales, flea markets, if it wasn’t nailed down and had a $2 sticker on it, we were there.

At one of those sales, Papaw bought a rusty bicycle. And not just a little rust. This thing looked like it had been through the Civil War and then parked at the bottom of a pond.

But Papaw sat down, flipped that bike upside down, and went to town with a wire brush like he was trying to get it ready for the Tour de France. After days of scrubbing and painting, it looked brand new. I mean showroom-floor, Christmas-morning, cue-the-orchestra music level good.

He proudly put it out in the yard with a $35 price tag on it.. honestly, a steal. But this fella came up, looked at the bike, looked at Papaw (who was reclined against a big oak tree like he was holding court), and said:

“Would you take five dollars for it?”

Without missing a beat, Papaw just looked at him with complete disdain and said:

“I think you should go hide your head somewhere.”

Negotiations were over. Forever.

Then there was the time we lived in Texas. One day, Mom asked Papaw to run to Kirbyville and pick up a 20-piece chicken meal from Church’s Chicken. She had coupons, because of course she did—this was the South and we respect the hustle.

Papaw said, “Sure,” and my brother and I rode along with him.

But when we got there, Papaw handed me enough money for two 20-piece boxes. I said, “Papaw, are you sure? Mom said just one.”

He looked at me and said, with dead seriousness:

“The one for your mom is for you guys to eat. The other one is mine.”

And y’all… I don’t remember if ate every piece of the extra box alone but he certainly scared it to death..

The rest of the family split the other one like it was our first meal in years

Papaw was many things: a giant of a man, a hard worker, a quiet force, and absolutely not the one to mess with.. But he also had a big ol’ heart he loved his family and he loved Jesus! , and every one of these stories makes me smile, laugh, and miss him more.

He went home to be with the Lord not long after that chicken incident in Texas. Mamaw’s joined him since then. I can’t wait to see them again one day.

Until then, I’ll just keep chuckling at the memories… and trying to live a life that leaves behind a legacy half as strong and twice as fried.

[brysonhaden-blog-blog]

In my mid-teens, my dad took a pastorate in a tiny Texas town near Jasper. And when I say tiny, I mean the kind of town where the Dairy Queen is also the town hall, and if you wave at someone, they’ll not only wave back but also call your mother to report exactly what you were wearing. It was cowboy country, and I dove in headfirst…hats, boots, belt buckles so big they could double as serving trays. The only thing missing was a horse.

Being an aspiring cowboy on a budget, I couldn’t afford a well-trained steed. So, like any wise teenager, I made the financially responsible decision to buy an untrained young filly. With the help of some books (which I mostly skimmed) and some older church members (who mostly laughed at me), I set out to become a horse trainer. Miraculously, my filly turned out gentle, probably because she had been spoiled rotten by the previous owners. She took to the saddle with no resistance, and suddenly, I was convinced I was the next great American cowboy.

Fast forward a bit, and I had fully immersed myself in horse culture. I made cowboy friends, went on trail rides, and even worked on a horse farm. Life was good. Then, my brother’s friend called with an offer we couldn’t refuse: an old, well-trained horse from his grandfather’s farm. This horse had plowed gardens, carried kids, and probably led a prayer meeting or two. He needed a good home, and we were just the suckers… uh, I mean, loving family to take him.

So, my father drove an ancient Ford F-150 all the way from Mississippi to Texas, hauling what we believed was a noble steed. What actually arrived, however, was a very short, very old Welsh pony. We named him Apache, because, well, why not? He was gentle, loved grazing, and spent his days being pestered by our young filly and a young stud colt. He was basically the old man at a retirement home who just wants to eat his pudding in peace.

One fateful day, my brother and I decided to take Apache for a ride. No saddle, just a blanket, because we were young, dumb, and had yet to experience real consequences. We set off down an old logging road, taking turns riding the pony, feeling like kings of the Texas wilderness. Then, out of absolutely nowhere, I fell off. Just… fell. No bucking, no sudden stops, no dramatic cowboy moment… one second I was on the horse, the next second I was experiencing gravity in its fullest force.

The pain was immediate and excruciating. I was convinced I was dying. I dramatically informed my brother of this tragic development, to which he responded with the concern and care only a younger brother can provide: he took the pony and walked home, leaving me sprawled in the dirt like yesterday’s laundry.

I begged him to go get our parents. He claims he did, but to this day, there is no evidence to support that claim. I suspect he got home, saw a snack on the counter, got distracted, and completely forgot about his dying older brother.

Meanwhile, I embarked on what felt like the most heroic, pain-filled journey of all time… crawling, gasping, and dramatically pausing for effect as I inched my way home. In reality, I probably covered about 30 feet every 10 minutes, but in my mind, I was trekking across the Sahara.

Just when I had accepted my fate and was prepared to leave my cowboy hat as a monument to my memory, I heard a vehicle approaching. It was my dad. He pulled up, took one look at me, and, unlike my brother… actually seemed concerned. He and my mom agreed that a trip to the ER was necessary.

After what felt like every test known to medical science, the doctors informed me that I was not, in fact, dying, but I had managed to bruise my kidney. Turns out, falling off a pony can really mess up your insides. They kept me overnight, and I had plenty of time to reflect on my life choices, including trusting my brother with my well-being.

Later, I confronted him about why exactly he left me for dead in the middle of a dirt road. His excuse? I had faked injuries in the past to get him to do things for me. Now, I have no recollection of such a thing ever happening. (Of course, he claims otherwise, but I maintain my innocence.)

The moral of the story? If you do cry wolf, your little brother may one day leave you to die in the middle of the woods. But since I never did that (allegedly), the real lesson is this: When you actually need help, make sure you have a trustworthy person around… and not a sibling who prioritizes snack time over your survival

[brysonhaden-blog-blog]

I grew up in South Mississippi, where summer was basically a battle for survival against the kind of heat and humidity that makes you feel like you’re wearing a hot, wet blanket all the time. We worked hard, sweated even harder, and constantly begged to go to the creek just for a few minutes of sweet, cool relief. The problem? Dad was usually too busy, and there wasn’t a decent swimming hole anywhere nearby.

So, we had to get creative. And when I say creative, I mean desperate. We ran through sprinklers, took turns sitting in number 10 wash tubs (which was more like marinating than swimming), and even tried to cool off in 55-gallon drums like a bunch of overgrown pickles in a brine bath. None of it was satisfying, so we were always on the lookout for the next great innovation in backyard water sports.

Then one day, genius struck. Somebody… probably one of us who had just overheated and started hallucinating, realized that if a canoe was designed to keep water out, then logically, it should be able to keep water in. A little dragging, a lot of splashing, and boom we had ourselves a homemade redneck swimming pool.

For several days, we basked in the glory of our innovation. That canoe was the hottest (or, I guess, coolest) thing in town. Then my cousin came over, and things took a turn for the extremely stupid. Four teenage boys in a canoe sized pool? It wasn’t long before “cooling off” turned into a full-blown, testosterone-fueled Olympic event.

It started with simple challenges…”How long can you hold your breath?” “Can you touch both ends of the canoe underwater without coming up?” but naturally, the stakes kept escalating. Then came the grand finale: the ultimate test of bravery and bone structure.

The challenge? Start in the middle of the canoe, go under the seats, and emerge triumphantly in the tiny 14-inch space between the last seat and the nose of the boat.

My older brother, our fearless leader in all things reckless… did it with ease. He emerged grinning like he’d just won a gold medal, then immediately dared the rest of us to do it. And, of course, my cousin, who was already over 6’5” and still growing, was not about to be shown up. There may or may not have been a bet involved (memory gets fuzzy when oxygen is low), but what I do remember is that a 6’5” teenager does not bend like a 6’ one.

Once he wedged himself under there, he was stuck. And I don’t mean “tight squeeze” stuck….. I mean “full-blown, flailing, panicked, canoe-trashing, about-to-drown-in-14-inches-of-water” stuck.

Now, you’d think the smart thing to do would have been to simply flip the canoe over and free him. But what did we do instead? We just stood there in absolute horror, watching our cousin thrash around like a cat in a bathtub.

By the sheer grace of God (and possibly because he momentarily transformed into a contortionist), he somehow wiggled free. He surfaced gasping for air, covered in scratches, with a heart rate somewhere in the hummingbird range. I like to think he emerged a wiser man, but honestly, I doubt it, because not long after, my older brother started chasing him through the woods with a hammer. (Don’t ask. We were raised in Mississippi, and that’s just how we handled disputes.)

Anyway… ever wonder how much trouble we could avoid if we actually helped people who are drowning—whether in sin, grief, hopelessness, or just plain bad decisions—instead of standing by and watching them thrash? How many lives could be changed if we actually got involved instead of realizing way too late that all we had to do was flip the boat?

[brysonhaden-blog-blog]

“The Great Bull Escape: A Lesson in Sneaky Cattle and Spiritual Truth”

Back when we were farming, we temporarily moved some of our cattle to my younger brother’s place. Everything seemed fine until my other brother got a game camera picture from a neighbor.

The picture showed what appeared to be my bull, standing knee deep in lush, green ryegrass, living his absolute best life. The problem? That wasn’t my ryegrass. That was somebody’s carefully planted deer plot.

Now, I wasn’t about to accuse my bull of trespassing without proof, so I jumped on the side-by-side and sped down to my pasture. And there he was… my bull, right where he should have been, munching away like he’d never even heard of knee deep ryegrass.

I was confused, but since the picture didn’t show his ear tag, I figured there had to be a mistake. Maybe it was a long lost twin. Maybe there was a secret underground network of identical bulls. Or maybe, just maybe, my bull had developed teleportation skills.

But then, the pictures kept coming.

Every few days, another game camera shot. Every few days, I’d race down to my pasture, and every single time, there stood my bull, acting innocent. And every single time, the pictures only showed one side of him… never the ear tag, never the brand.

This went on for weeks. I started questioning reality. Was I being gaslit by my own livestock?

Finally, I decided to get permission and investigate the neighbor’s property myself. I found tracks.. a lot of tracks. Clearly, some four-legged bandit had been helping himself to a fine dining experience on a regular basis.

So I backtracked the hoof prints, and wouldn’t you know it? They led straight back to my pasture.

I was starting to get the picture. My bull wasn’t confused. I was.

Then, the next time a picture came in, I did something different. Instead of hopping on the side-by-side, I walked to the pasture. And guess what?

No bull.

That sneaky rascal had been waiting until he heard my side-by-side coming, then sprinting back just in time to stand there, looking innocent, pretending he’d been a good boy all along.

I had been played by a bovine.

A little fence mending put an end to his joyrides, but the whole situation got me thinking… don’t we do the exact same thing with God?

We “jump the fence” and wander into places we have no business being. We involve ourselves in things we shouldn’t. We indulge in what looks good at the time, but we know we don’t belong there. And then, when we think someone’s watching… we rush back to where we’re supposed to be, acting like we never left.

But here’s the thing….God isn’t fooled.

Unlike me, who got outsmarted by an overgrown hamburger, God already knows where we’ve been. He sees the heart. He knows our struggles, our desires, and our secret wanderings.

The good news? He’s not looking to “catch us”He’s calling us to stay close to Him.

So maybe today is a good day to check our fences, to stop pretending, and to ask God to help us stay where we belong and not just when people are watching, but all the time.

[brysonhaden-blog-blog]

I grew up in a family that hunted snakes. Not like Indiana Jones-style adventurers… more like, “Hey, there’s a snake, let’s go catch it and make it part of the family.” We kept them as pets, rescued them from fearful neighbors, and were basically the local reptilian pest control service. It was all perfectly normal.

Then I married Jess.

Now, in hindsight, I see my mistake. I never really disclosed my fondness…okay, my downright enthusiasm for snakes. I just assumed, as one does when raised in an environment of absolute insanity, that everyone felt the same way. I figured, “Who wouldn’t love a surprise snake encounter?”

One day, not long after we were married, I was out behind the house cleaning up. I lifted an old piece of tin, and lo and behold, a beautiful, large rat snake lay curled beneath it. Instinct took over. I picked it up, admiring its sleek form, and immediately set off to share my discovery with my beloved new bride.

She would be thrilled. Right?

I rounded the corner of the house, snake proudly in hand, ready for my big moment. But instead of Jess, I found myself face-to-face with my father-in-law.

Let me tell you…he was not impressed.

Now, I have seen people react to snakes in a variety of ways: screaming, running, the occasional attempt to climb an invisible ladder to nowhere. But this man moved with the kind of speed that defies human physics. One moment he was there, the next he was halfway across the yard, creating what I can only describe as an impressive distance in a flash.

Then, in a voice that carried the weight of both authority and impending doom, he congratulated me on my snake-wrangling skills.

Well… not exactly.

What he actually said… through gritted teeth and with a gaze that could turn water to ice… was something that roughly translated to:

“If you take one more step toward me with that thing, you’re gonna walk straight into Heaven.”

Now, I don’t remember his exact words, but I remember the feeling in my soul. It was the unmistakable sensation of immediate and non-negotiable danger. I suddenly realized that while a rat snake might not be venomous, my continued existence was entirely negotiable if I kept moving forward.

So, being the quick learner that I am, I nodded, turned on my heel, and promptly escorted my snake buddy right back to the tin from whence it came.

That was 25 years ago, and I still vividly remember the shock of realizing that something completely normal to me was absolutely not normal to someone else. It’s a funny thing, life is full of different opinions, perspectives, and “normals.” And yet, we often find ourselves trying to convince others that our normal should be their normal.

The truth, though, is that truth isn’t up for debate.

Truth is defined by God. His Word tells us that He is truth. We can’t compromise, reshape, or twist it to fit personal preferences. But outside of what Scripture clearly defines as right or wrong, we’re just left with opinions. And opinions? Well, they’re shaped by upbringing, culture, experience, and sometimes even an unreasonable affection for reptiles.

So let’s be careful what hills we’re willing to die on. Because while I love snakes, I was not willing to become the late son-in-law over one.

[brysonhaden-blog-blog]

A Dark Night, a Stealth Mission, and an Unexpected Betrayal

It’s 2:45 AM. The world is quiet. My family is sound asleep. And I? I am returning home from my security job, ready to execute the perfect stealth entry into my own house.

I do this many nights. I have a system. A flawless, well-oiled process of slipping in undetected like a ninja. A very tired, heavily loaded down ninja. For some reason, I insist on removing my gun belt and vest before walking in, ensuring that my arms are completely full of gear. I could take two trips, but that would make too much sense.

Instead, I load myself up like a human pack mule. Backpack strapped on. Water bottle dangling from my pinky. Every pocket and crevice filled. I am the walking definition of “biting off more than you can chew.”

But I’ve got this.

I fumble with the door in the dark. No problem. I’ve lived in this house a long time. I know every inch. I don’t need lights… I am the light. (Okay, maybe not, but let’s roll with the confidence.) Plus, my college sons are home for spring break, and I don’t know where they decided to crash for the night. Turning on the light could wake them up, and that would be a failure to my mission. So, I go full stealth mode.

I take my first few steps inside. Smooth. Silent. The coup de grâce of stealth. I am so close to pulling off the perfect entrance. Then…

BAM. CRASH. BANG. OH DEAR LORD, HELP ME.

The betrayal is swift. The same table that has been in the same spot for almost two years..the faithful, unmoving furniture piece of our home… suddenly lunges into my path like an enemy combatant. I never saw it coming. My shin collides with the force of a thousand regrets, and I instantly realize I have two choices:

1. Fall with everything in my arms and accept my fate.

2. Ditch all my cargo mid-air and try to survive.

Option 2 wins. I launch my gear in every direction. My water bottle ricochets off the wall. My backpack slams onto the floor. Other items scatter in ways I will only discover later, probably when I step on them barefoot. And me? Well I go full Olympic gymnast into a chair.

For a moment, I just lay there. Assessing the damage. Physically? Somehow, I am unscathed. Emotionally? My ego is in critical condition.

The best part? My entire family sleeps through the whole event. My wife, my kids, none of them stir. I nearly lost my life (or at least my dignity), and they remain blissfully unaware. They’ll find out when they read this article.

The Moral of the Story is this..

How did this happen? It’s simple. I opted not to walk in the light. I knew my way. I lived in this house. I had walked this same path countless times. But when I relied on my own wisdom instead of the guidance of light, I fell.

Sound familiar?

Scripture tells us clearly:

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” (Psalm 119:105)

As believers, we have Jesus, the Light of the World. But how often do we walk through life carrying burdens we refuse to set down, stumbling through darkness because we assume we know the way? We may still be in the right house… We are saved, still in Christ, but when we stop relying on Him and His Word, we trip. We fall. We make a mess.

Thankfully, just like my late night disaster, God’s grace allows us to get back up. The question is…will we keep trying to walk through life in the dark, or will we choose to turn on the Light?

Your call. But trust me….turn on the light. Your shins will thank you.

[brysonhaden-blog-blog]

This Is the Church—But Not the Building

“This is the church, and this is the steeple. Open the door, and here are all the people.”

I remember the little rhyme from childhood, complete with the hand motions. It brings back sweet memories of growing up in a Christian home. But as nostalgic as it is, the theology is terrible. A better version would be:

“Here is a building, and it has a steeple. Inside is the church, made up of people.”

Misunderstanding the Church

Why do we struggle with the true definition of the church? Could it be that we prefer a definition that fits what we want to believe?

For too long, many have idolized the physical church building, elevating it to a level of sacredness it was never meant to hold. We refer to it as a “holy place,” yet this mischaracterization borders on idolatry. I’ve seen this firsthand in my 20 years of ministry… churches voting against reasonable support for missions while approving thousands of dollars for flower beds and cosmetic upgrades in the same meeting. I’ve endured an hour-long tirade over children having candy in the sanctuary, as if that somehow dishonored God. I’ve witnessed church members criticize how someone off the street was dressed when they came to worship.

One of the most extreme examples was after a youth revival, when five teenagers were baptized in a Sunday morning service. Afterward, I was told that if the sanctuary was not put back exactly as it was, someone would burn the church down.

These aren’t just sad stories; they reveal a deeper issue. Many have replaced the worship of God with a devotion to a building, its furnishings, and its traditions.

What Makes Something Holy?

Pews, pianos, pulpits, and decorations are not holy. The building itself is not holy.

In the Old Testament, the Tabernacle and the Temple had a designated “holy place” because of God’s presence there. But under grace, God’s presence does not dwell in a physical location… He dwells within His people. We are the church. The building is simply a gathering place for the church.

This doesn’t mean we should neglect or disrespect the space where we meet, any more than we should neglect our own homes. But we must be careful not to assign holiness to a physical structure while ignoring the true spiritual reality of what the church is.

A Shift in Focus

There are sacred moments that take place inside the building… worship, prayer, communion, but make no mistake: it is God we honor, not the place itself. The church building is a tool, a resource given by God to facilitate worship and ministry.

When we start requiring people to meet a certain standard… how they dress, whether they’re carrying a cup of coffee, or if they might accidentally leave a wrapper on the floor… we send the wrong message to a lost world. The church should be a hospital, a place where broken people come to be made whole by the grace of God.

If our focus is on things like furniture, décor, or the pristine condition of the sanctuary, we have lost sight of the One we are supposed to be worshiping. We must stop treating the building as our holy grail and return to worshiping the only One who is truly holy- Jesus Christ.

[brysonhaden-blog-blog]

Learning from Jesus’ Model- The Power of Discipleship

Jesus Christ changed the world with just 12 men. While He preached to thousands, performed miracles before multitudes, and debated religious leaders in public, His deepest and most intentional investment was in a small group of men. These 12 disciples walked with Him, learned from Him, and saw firsthand the power of His ministry. He didn’t just teach them—He molded them, challenged them, and prepared them for a mission far greater than they could have imagined.

Of those 12, 11 remained faithful after His ascension, and through them, Jesus set the foundation for the global expansion of the gospel. These men, once fishermen, tax collectors, and ordinary individuals, became world-changers because they had an intimate relationship with Jesus. They didn’t just know about Him—they believed in Him with such conviction that they were willing to give their lives for His message.

The Mission of the 11

Before ascending into heaven, Jesus gave these 11 men a clear commission:

“But you shall receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you shall be witnesses to Me in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth.” (Acts 1:8)

He did not give them multiple strategies—He gave them one: Preach the gospel, make disciples, and teach others what He had taught them. That was the method. That was the plan. And these 11 men obeyed. Because of their faithfulness, the gospel spread like wildfire, and the world was changed forever.

Where Have We Gone Wrong?

Fast forward to today, and we must ask ourselves: Have we been as faithful as those 11 men? Have we carried the mission forward with the same commitment, conviction, and passion? The reality is, we have often fallen short. The church has become stagnant in its pursuit of making disciples, raising up leaders, and planting new churches. We have replaced intimacy with Christ with programs and preferences.

Maybe the problem isn’t in our methods but in our relationship with Jesus Himself. Those 11 men were effective because they had spent time with the Savior of the world. They knew Him deeply, and their faith was unshakable. Do we know Him like that? Are we walking in full surrender, intimacy, and obedience to Christ?

A Call to Return to True Discipleship

If we truly commit to Christ—fully, intimately, and passionately—we will see lives change. We will impact our families, our communities, our churches, and even our nation. But it begins with returning to the model Jesus gave us:

1. Deepen our relationship with Christ – We cannot give what we do not have. We must seek a more intimate, personal walk with Jesus.

2. Invest in others – Discipleship is not optional; it is the biblical method for kingdom growth. We must pour into others as Christ and godly men have poured into us.

3. Stay faithful to the mission – The world will not be reached through programs and entertainment, but through the preaching of the gospel, the making of disciples, and the planting of churches.

The same mission Jesus entrusted to 11 faithful men is the same mission entrusted to us. May we rise to the call.

[brysonhaden-blog-blog]

Reproducibility is the lifeblood of every living thing. Just as fruit must be replanted to produce more trees and couples must have children to continue their family line… the process of reproduction is essential for survival. In nature, we invest tremendous effort in preventing extinction, whether in animals, plants, or even endangered human cultures.

The Church, too, is alive—it is not defined by a building, property, or institution but by people. I love the biblical definition of the Church as a group of born-again, baptized followers of Christ who gather to worship, obey God’s commands, and then scatter to make His name known. This definition not only emphasizes that the Church is a community of people but also that it is a people who reproduce. We reproduce the Church by scattering to share the Gospel and by making disciples who, in turn, make disciples.

This principle of multiplication is clearly laid out in 2 Timothy 2:2, where Paul instructs Timothy:

“And the things that you have heard from me among many witnesses, commit these to faithful men who will be able to teach others also.”

Paul’s model of discipleship is not simply about learning—it is about passing on the faith in a way that equips others to continue the process.

If we view the Church merely as a building or an end in itself, we miss its true purpose. The Church is the body of believers who have trusted in Jesus Christ, who come together to worship Him, are discipled in His ways, and then go out to reproduce that process. It is through this dynamic, living reproduction that the sustainability of the Gospel, the growth of Christ’s followers, and the effectiveness of His mission are realized.

Knowledge alone cannot reproduce itself. To build the Kingdom of God, we must first recognize that the Church is alive and that it reproduces only through the lives it has produced. True reproduction is not a mere transfer of information—it is an intentional, relational process of investing in the lives of believers. It takes time, commitment, and hard work. Discipleship is not achieved through lectures or the mere transfer of knowledge but through active, intimate investment in one another.

Churches only produce more churches when their members obey God’s command to make disciples who make disciples. Extinction will come upon a body of believers that neglects this vital process. We must develop leaders, make disciples, and plant churches that, in turn, produce leaders, disciples, and churches—repeating the process over and over until Christ comes to take us home.

[brysonhaden-blog-blog]

Building the Kingdom.. How?

Invest God’s Resources in God’s Way

Imagine the impact if God’s resources were truly invested according to His plan! In the book of Acts, we see an extraordinary movement—believers selling their possessions and bringing the proceeds to the apostles, who then distributed them to those in need. This wasn’t just about addressing a humanitarian crisis; it was a full commitment to the mission Christ had given His Church.

These resources weren’t stockpiled for personal security or institutional prestige. They weren’t set aside for a rainy day fund, a beautification committee, or an elaborate building campaign. They were given to those who lacked the means to go—to proclaim the Gospel, to carry out the work of discipleship, and to advance the Kingdom of God. Some had the willingness but not the resources, while others had the resources and willingly sacrificed them for the cause of Christ.

One of the most dangerous messages a leader can preach is one that centers on wealth, possessions, or financial gain. While I believe in tithing, in generous giving, and in financial stewardship, I rarely focus on the offering plate. Why? Because when people’s hearts are fully committed to Christ, when their minds are fixed on the things above, when their lives are aligned with the mission of God, they will give beyond their abilities—not out of guilt or obligation, but out of a deep, sacrificial love for the mission that truly matters.

Acts 4 reveals that when Christ’s mission became their singular focus, the believers gave willingly, the Church faithfully utilized what was given, and the mission flourished. What if we embraced that same mindset today? What if we stopped building castles for ourselves and instead poured everything we have into the Kingdom? The early Church changed the world with their sacrificial commitment—imagine what God could do if we followed their example!

Remember God has the resources. He owns it all and whatever He has allowed us to manage is intended for eternal investment!

[brysonhaden-blog-blog]

Castles or the Kingdom?

One of the greatest dangers facing American Christianity today is our tendency to build castles instead of advancing the Kingdom. We have become enamored with comfort, obsessed with beauty, and consumed with maintaining structures that serve us rather than serving the mission of Christ. Instead of being outwardly driven—reaching the lost, caring for the broken, and making disciples—we turn inward, focused on building something for ourselves.

Our churches become fortresses, designed to shelter rather than send. Our resources are poured into ornate buildings and luxurious furnishings while the world outside our walls perishes. What message does this send? To the watching world, it appears that Christians are more concerned with their own comfort than with the commission Christ has given us. The castle becomes our identity, and in doing so, we lose sight of the Kingdom.

Jesus never called us to build monuments to ourselves. He called us to be laborers in the harvest, fishers of men, and servants to all. If we are not careful, we will spend our time maintaining what we have built rather than obeying the one who called us to build His Church—not with stone and stained glass, but with people redeemed by His grace.

Are we building castles of comfort or advancing the Kingdom of God? One will eventually crumble; the other will last for eternity…

[brysonhaden-blog-blog]

“Front sight, front sight, front sight” This phrase should be present in any entry level handgun class. In every class I have ever been a part of instructing this phrase was prevalent simply because front sight focus is essential to accuracy. To be an accurate handgun shooter we must align the rear sights but blur them as we focus on the front sights. Just as a handgun shooter must focus intently on the front sight to hit their target, a believer must fix their eyes on Christ to walk faithfully in a world full of distractions. The Bible provides strong support for this concept:

1. Setting Our Focus on Christ

Colossians 3:1-2 says:

“If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God. Set your affection on things above, not on things on the earth.”

Just as the shooter blurs out the rear sights and background to focus on the front sight, believers must blur the distractions of the world and set their hearts and minds on heavenly things.

2. Running the Race with Focus

Hebrews 12:1-2 encourages us to stay focused on Jesus:

“Let us run with patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith.”

In the same way a shooter must block out external distractions to remain accurate, we must continually fix our spiritual sight on Jesus to walk in victory.

3. The Danger of Losing Focus

When Peter walked on water toward Jesus in Matthew 14:28-30, he began to sink as soon as he shifted his focus to the storm instead of Christ. This illustrates the importance of staying locked onto our “front sight”—the Lord Jesus Christ.

4. Practical Application

• Eliminate distractions: Just as a shooter practices focusing on the front sight, believers must develop spiritual disciplines like prayer, Bible reading, and worship to keep their eyes on Christ.

• Trust the process: The rear sights (like life’s circumstances or challenges) play a role but must fade into the background as we trust God to guide our steps.

By “blurring the world and looking up,” we can remain spiritually accurate, faithful, and steadfast, living with eternal purpose and hitting the “target” of God’s will for our lives. Keep your focus on Christ—the ultimate front sight!

[brysonhaden-blog-blog]

The couch and a changed perspective.

I don’t like our couch. It’s old, lumpy, and the cushions shift with the slightest movement of one’s body. I don’t even like the look of the couch. Recently, I have made my opinion on the couch known to my wife on multiple occasions. I have grumbled, refused to sit on it, and sworn to purchase something that would provide me more comfort. This has become a common complaint at home because I have felt justified in my displeasure with the lousy couch.

While in North Carolina for Hurricane Helene I have been convicted about the couch. First I missed the couch, well maybe not the couch but what it represents … home. Also, I have worked around many people who don’t have a home but would be most grateful for a lumpy, lousy, couch like mine.

The conviction is calling for a change in my perspective. Changing my perspective does not fix the couch but it should move my attitude from grumbling to grateful.

It seems that I get so comfortable with being comfortable that I feel entitled to what facilitates my comfort. Truthfully, if we stopped to consider the difference in our discomfort with the pleasures of life and other’s desperate needs of bare essentials maybe we would all focus more on being content and less on complaining. I am blessed with a roof over my head while folks within our own country sleep in tents, in a borrowed room, or a shelter. God reminded me this week that we should always be grateful, never be greedy, and be cheerful givers too! As I am almost home from my second trip to North Carolina to assist with disaster relief efforts I can’t help but think of how great it will feel to hug my family and plop down on the couch of my conviction.. By the way, does anybody need a couch?

“Let your conversation be without covetousness; and be content with such things as ye have: for he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”

‭‭Hebrews‬ ‭13‬:‭5‬ ‭

[brysonhaden-blog-blog]

https://youtube.com/shorts/vWjBHB4NfvU?si=la6VHo9o38I_aNLJ