Between Tom and James

What a sunrise, a river, and a dusty old museum taught me about the Church today

Today’s route was beautiful.

I followed the Missouri River early this morning, the sun breaking like fire over the canyon walls. The light touched everything—the old cottonwoods, the sleepy pastures, the water winding like it’s been doing since before we had names for things.

The Missouri isn’t just a river—it’s a story. It’s a sermon.

I thought about the Mandan Indians, who camped along this river and traded with trappers. Pale-skinned, blue-eyed natives who stunned Lewis and Clark. Jefferson himself wondered if they might be one of the lost tribes of Israel.

There’s something holy about this river.

It carries blood and grit and beauty.

It carried steamships, explorers, families, hope.

Fort Benton, Montana, once called the end of the line for steamboat traffic, still bears that history. That’s where I met Tom.

Tom is an old rancher who now works the museum in Fort Benton—set up like an old frontier fort. He loves it.

He doesn’t just give tours. He preaches the place.

Talk to Tom for five minutes and you’ll know more about the Corps of Discovery, the Great Falls portage, or the fire that almost took the town out than you’d learn in a semester of school. You feel it when he talks. You see it.

Then there was James.

Probably college-age. Sat behind the visitor’s desk.

Didn’t care.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t flinch when I walked by.

He was just there. Just passing time. Waiting to clock out.

And man, if that ain’t the church today.

We’ve got a handful of Toms—men who love the story, who live to share it, who want others to feel what they’ve seen.

And we’ve got an army of Jameses—warming pews, reciting lines, manning tables, disinterested in the weight of the gospel.

No urgency. No fire. Just a shift.

So let me ask you:

Are you a Tom or a James?

If you’re a Tom—keep trucking. We need you. We need your intense breakdowns of 1 and 2 Kings. We need you to draw the map, to tell the tale, to grab people by the collar and say, “This matters. This happened. This still matters.”

And if you’re a James—look, maybe it’s time to get off the desk. Clean a bathroom. Read a chapter. Walk out to the river when the sun rises and ask the Creator why you’re even breathing today.

Because this gospel isn’t a museum display.

It’s a river.

It’s ancient.

It’s dangerous.

And it’s moving.

Find your place in the story—or get swept away.