Fifty years. Half a century of being here.

I said last year I was coming for it, looking forward to the senior vibe. Well, here it is. The number is heavier than forty-nine in ways I can't quite explain. It's not dread. It's more like standing on a hill you've been climbing your whole life and finally being high enough to see where you came from.

So let me tell you what I see from up here.

I see a long and winding trail. And I’m not here to romanticize it. I see a lot of wrong turns, mistakes, pain. I have failed more times than I care to admit and more times than most people know. Bad decisions, some as recent as this week. Wrong sacrifices, usually at the expense of the things I love the most. Misplaced confidence; academia will do that to you. Words I'd give anything to take back, too many to mention. Seasons where I was so busy building something that I forgot to be present for the people I was supposedly building it for. I have hurt people I love, and I’m sorry. I have been wrong loudly and often; back to that misplaced confidence. If the measure of a life were a scoreboard, I’d be Georgia Tech football: underdog, scrappy, an occasional shocker, and full of heartaches.  

But here’s the thing at fifty, and it’s really the whole story. I stopped keeping score a long time ago. Everything good in my life has come to me as a gift, not as a wage. I didn't earn it. I couldn't have. Grace is not a concept I picked up in seminary and put on a shelf. It's the only thing that explains why I'm standing here at fifty, still loved, still upright, still invited to the table.

I see Paula. Twenty-eight years. She was a kid when she said yes and had no idea what she was signing up for. Neither did I. She's seen the worst of me up close, more than once, and she's never handed me the bill for it. Everything else I've built is scaffolding. She's the building. Give me a slow Saturday morning, two cups of coffee, her humble brag about her Wordle score, reading me something off her phone that I pretend to care about, and you can keep the rest of it.

I see my kids. They made me a father, and those first seconds of their lives remain the best seconds of mine. They are becoming their own people now. One is about to graduate college, the other is just starting, and the last one gets his license next month. Truly, drivers on their own roads, and watching that happen beyond my control or ability to protect them is both horrific and a joy I did not know to ask for. They owe me nothing. They never did. That they choose to love me anyway is another most outrageous grace in my life.

I see the work. I get to lead Reformation Brewery for a living. Let that sit for a second. A guy who spent fifteen years in vocational ministry and once kept his good beers a secret because he was way too Baptist now spends his days building spaces where strangers become neighbors. Nick and I started this on a homebrew rig with a few folks and a firepit, and it grew into something far bigger than we ever planned. Thirteen years of it now. Tanks and taprooms and payroll and permits and the occasional very long week. It is real work, and some of it is brutal, and I love it. Not every man gets to spend his energy on something he actually believes in. I do. That's no small thing.

I see the people who show up. Our crew, who carry this thing every day and make it what guests actually experience. Our investors, who wanted more than a return. Our guests, who chose us out of a hundred other places they could have gone. Our neighbors in North Georgia who let us plant something in their community and then made it their own. Old friends who knew me before. New friends who somehow like me anyway.

So, here's what I know at fifty. And it’s probably a lot simpler than I could’ve dreamed. I am a rich man in the ways that actually matter, and I'm not sure I have the words to say how aware of it I am. I’m loved by a woman who knows the whole truth about me. I’m trusted by kids who’ve lived with my best and worst days. Employed in a job I never prayed for, but a calling that found me anyway. I’m rooted in a real community that I get to give back to. I’m forgiven, permanently, by a God who was never waiting on me to become forgivable.

That's the ledger. It doesn't balance. It never will. That's what makes it grace.

Thank you for the birthday wishes, the kindness, the texts, the years. Whether you've known me for decades or you just followed along for the entertainment, I'm grateful you're in this story.

Now celebrate with me. The big party is tomorrow night at Reformation Woodstock, and we will see where it goes from there. I ain’t dead yet. Cheers! 

In 1976, I was born on Main Street, Canton, Georgia, in the United States of America. Not near Main Street. On it. My family goes back generations in Cherokee County, which means I didn't just read about this place growing up. I inherited it. The creeks, the ponds, the clay soil, the green pastures, the sleepy, quaint towns and cities, the particular way people wave when they pass on a rural two-lane road. This is not nostalgia. It is my actual formation.

This year, America turns 250. I turn 50. While I hope not to replicate Adams or Jefferson, who both died on this day, the 50th anniversary of the nation's founding, it's a coincidence I'm willing to exploit.

I've baled hay in fields that are now subdivisions. I've watched pastures turn into parking lots and four-lane intersections with a Chick-fil-A on the corner. I grew up in downtown Woodstock in the 80’s, when it didn't have much going on. I ran around rural Buffington and Hickory Flat in the 90s when running around outside was just called Tuesday. I've seen this place change over decades.

And here's what I know: the land changes, but something underneath it doesn't.

Many of the people who stayed through the change, or came here and chose to put roots down, they carry something real. A particular stubbornness about community. A belief that your neighbor matters, that a handshake means something, that showing up counts. I don't think that belongs to any one family or any one generation. It feels more like something the land itself holds onto. New people move in, old families move on, the names on the mailboxes change, and somehow the place keeps producing real people. That's not a Cherokee County thing, exactly. It's an American thing. But I've watched it live and breathe in this specific patch of Georgia, and it has shaped so much about who I am.

The closest I'll ever be to a founding father was founding Reformation Brewery, and it started here. Not in Atlanta. Not in some trendier zip code. Here. In Cherokee County, the former “Broiler Capital of the World,” in the community where I was formed. That decision wasn't a strategy. It came from a belief that what we needed to build didn’t need pretense; it just needed pursuing.

"Here" is not just a location. Here is a practice. Here is the opposite of pressure. Here is the belief that you don't have to perform to belong.

And here's a thing I've noticed over fifty years that I think gets missed in most of the loud conversations about this country: the loudest people are usually the least critical, the least mindful, and the ones doing the least living.

Certainty closes doors. Self-righteousness, whatever flavor it comes in, political, religious, or cultural, always narrows the world down to people who agree with you and people who need correcting. And once you've sorted everyone into those two buckets, you've stopped pursuing much of anything. You've stopped being curious about your neighbor. You've stopped being surprised by people. You've traded the actual messy work of living alongside other free people for the much easier work of being right. 

That's not liberty. That’s a hellscape dressed up in Sunday’s best, strong and wrong. 

The pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness, the actual pursuit, requires a kind of humility that self-righteousness and certainty can't survive. You can't pursue happiness while you're digging and fortifying a trench, too busy defending a position. You can't really live alongside people while you're managing whether they measure up. The folks I've known who seem most free, the ones who actually seem to be living rather than performing a life, are almost never the ones who are sure of everything. They're the ones who stayed mindful and curious. Who could change their mind without it costing them their identity. Who treated their neighbor as someone to know rather than someone to convince.

I've seen both versions up close because I've lived both versions. There were times, years, I spent more certain than curious, and I’d say looking back, those were not my best times/years. They were not the years of much liberty at all, even though I probably would have told you otherwise at the time. But the years I've spent being curious, willing to be wrong, willing to sit across the table from someone who sees it differently and just listen, those are the moments, times, years that have actually felt like freedom.

A truly free country runs on that same principle, scaled up. The framers of our country wrote down an aspiration they hadn't yet lived out, and the 250 years since have been an argument, sometimes a brutal one, about what it actually means to take that aspiration seriously. The progress hasn't come from people who were already certain they had the answer. It comes from people willing to keep examining the gap between what we said and what we did, and to keep closing it.

That's the version of America I want to celebrate this year. Not the one that thinks it has arrived. The one still in pursuit. Still willing to confess its own hypocrisy. Still curious enough to keep examining itself. Still humble enough to keep getting better.

I've had the privilege of watching this principle play out at the most ordinary scale in a most ordinary place I get to call “work”. Reformation aspires to welcome all to gather in her space. And the space only works when nobody has to prove anything to sit at it. Dogs, kids, grandparents, college kids, the regular at the corner couch who's been coming in every Thursday for years, they all share the same space without anyone needing to be right about anything. Nobody has to justify what's in their glass to belong. That's a small thing. It's also the whole thing. And it has to be nourished and defended from those seeking to make it about themselves and their certainty. 

The morning coffee. The neighborly conversation across backyards. The shared look across a crowded room. The collective cheers or jeers when the goal is scored. The everyday, unspectacular construction of a life together, stone by stone. That's not a brewery model. That's a country model, worth pursuing.

I love my home. I love my country. I love my family. I love my friends. I love my God. 

Those aren't small things dressed up in big emotions. They're the entire thing. They're what the last 250 years have been building toward, and what the next 250 will depend on. Not certainty. Not winning the debate. Not your side owning the other. Just enough humility to stay curious about each other, and enough freedom to actually go live, rather than spending our lives defending a position about how to live.

I'm a Cherokee County kid who chose to plant something here instead of somewhere easier, who believes the best version of this country looks a lot like what I've been lucky enough to live. Not perfect. Not without loss or failure. But real. Rooted. Curious. Full of people still in pursuit. Living their American Dream. 

America at 250 is not finished. Neither am I at 50.

That feels right to me. That feels like the whole point. 

To Paula, my bride,

Twenty-eight years. The number gets older and heavier with history, but my love for you has never been freer and lighter. For a long time, marriage felt like a destination to strive for and arrive at. What a joke, it’s been the greatest adventure of my life. We were just kids, younger than Piper, complete idiots. ὁ δὲ θεός, it’s been the greatest gift to grow up with you and beside you. 

We started with those huge dreams, the sweet, young, idealistic ones. The kind that takes you to faraway lands and also into food lines. And then seven years later, thinking it may never be our fortune, children were given. Our collective that rooted and focused us on what really matters. Raising kids is no joke; nothing harder, nothing more rewarding. So many moments, so many stories. But the real marriage magic, not the big, glorious, or inglorious moments. It’s the morning coffee, the bathroom conversations through a shower curtain, the shared looks across a crowded room, the everyday steady construction of a life together, stone by stone. 

We live in a culture of relentless noise; it’s loud, exhausting, demanding. You’ve always been my freedom, my fortress of love. You are the very space where the performance ends and the authentic self begins. In the mess, in the beauty, you are my space to be me. 

Nearly three decades of building things that matter to us, but none of it; the callings, the projects, the business, and not even the kids, compare to the sanctuary we have cultivated between us. It is a sacred and rare gift of grace. Thank you for the grace of your presence, the gift of your heart, and the privilege of being loved by you. The marriage we have is a gift that outshines everything built. 

Happy 28th Anniversary, I love you. 

There’s ample evidence that the modern soul is starving on an unhealthy diet that mistakes efficiency and mere proximity for genuine connection. Modernity’s tech-drunk stupor of cold, objective goals, constantly connected to a digital hellscape, has left us bound to feeling more alone. 

The cost of this digital wilderness is clear. Our tools prioritize a harsh reality that fosters superficial interactions, making it harder to sustain authentic connections.

The impact of this digital landscape has become evident. We were promised a global community, but instead received a hall of mirrors. To feel hopeful again, we need to adopt a more genuine form of hospitality, one that understands what we can control and roots itself in the tangible reality of the present moment.

Friction is Real and Warm

Authentic hospitality is a practice rooted in genuine humility. A humility that requires an analog reality and a deliberate act of slowing down. It shows up in subtle gestures. The hand around a mug, a pause in a spoken sentence, the volume of a voice when real humans engage in the elegance of a shared coffee, beer, or meal together without an agenda. These unrushed moments are what anchor us in our shared humanity and nurture a true sense of warmth and worth. 

In contrast, these damn screens are engineered to manipulate the mind, circumvent the heart, and draw us into a relentless cycle of comparison within the binary of the seen and the unseen. Preaching connection, it lacks the essential reality of friction. 

Yes, friction is good for us. It is real, it’s where warmth is found. Relationships are intrinsically messy. But they’re a beautiful mess that comes with physical presence and space. It’s where vulnerabilities aren’t a weakness to be edited, and discomfort isn’t simply a swipe away. 

Porches over Platforms

Curated platforms are the cages we trap ourselves in. We surrender the freedom of being known through face-to-face exchange for the virtual noise that distracts, deflects, and deceives us from real intimacy. 

The cure to a world that maximizes loneliness is not a better algorithm. It is a bigger porch.

A Return to the Local

Unfortunately, the digital loneliness virus we caught and spread isn’t going to cure itself. The only protein that breaks its vicious hold on us is a return to the hospitality of the backyard and the slow, intentional work of tending to the souls put in front of us. We are not nodes in a network; we’re more than data banks. We’re created to be branches of a vine, rooted in the same earth, woven together to flourish and belong in real community. But where do we start?

Acknowledge Your Limits: You cannot be everywhere at once, and you shouldn't try. Focus on the Local: Your neighbor is a story to explore, not a profile to curate. Embrace the Silence: FOMO isn’t healthy; it’s another trap. Growth happens in the unscripted moments, far away from the digital glare. 

In our collectively rooted humanity is where the loneliness begins to fade, and real community begins to grow. Peace is not seeking more things to experience for likes or clicks, but by being fully present in the space we already occupy. 

​

Last week, I was reminded through a few unrelated moments of perspective just how awesome it's been to live life in the place I've called home since birth: Cherokee County, North Georgia. And it was something my brother shared, an old 80's pic of us in what is today Towne Lake, that sparked some all too familiar direct messages of friends old and new, "don't you wish it was still like that today?", or the other thousand ways to say, "Not In My BackYard." What's often called a NIMBY perspective. While I do have empathy for the perspective, it's the lack of self-awareness that can be really frustrating. 

You see, there’s a funny thing about the phrase “Not in my backyard.”

It sneaks in a quiet assumption: that the backyard is actually yours; fixed, permanent, somehow more yours than anyone else’s. But if you zoom out even a little, that story falls apart.

There was always someone here before you.

Before your subdivision, there was probably a pasture. Before there was pasture, there was farm. Before the farm, there were woods. And before that, there were people who didn’t call it “property” at all; just home. 

Every generation shows up, falls in love with what they find, and then tries to freeze it in time. We all do it, just in different ways.

“I moved here for the quiet, I don’t want apartments.”
“I moved here for the character, no new businesses.”
“I moved here for the charm, no more traffic.”

What we’re really saying is:
“I like the benefit of my arrival… but I don’t want the cost of yours.”

That’s the blind spot.

Because the truth is:

Your residence was somebody’s “development.” Your residence was once “ruining the view.” Your car was once “adding to the traffic.”

Someone, at some point, looked at you the way you’re looking at the next person. Now, does that mean every new project is good? Of course not. There are bad fits and lazy plans. Being skeptical can be wise. Protecting truly fragile things like community, environment, and history matters deeply.

But that’s different from the reflexive, “No, because I’m here now.”

The more honest position sounds like this:

“I love this place. I’m grateful I got here when I did.
I know others need a place too.
So how do we grow in a way that’s fair, thoughtful, and humane?
Even if it changes what I’m used to.”

That posture doesn’t shout NIMBY (not in my back yard) or YIMBY (yes in my back yard). It just says: I remember I’m not the first one here, and I won’t be the last.

And when we remember that, a few things shift:

We argue a little softer. We listen a little longer. We think less about only “protecting what’s mine” and more about “stewarding what we've been given.”

So if you want a simple line to carry into these conversations, here it is:

“There was always someone here before you, and there will be someone after you. Let’s build a future like we believe that.”

That’s where humility shows up. That’s where real community gets built — not just in our backyards, but around the table where everybody gets a seat.  

Forty-nine years. I’m a very blessed man by many metrics, but none more than being loved well by a wife of twenty-seven years and the gift of giving love to my children over the last twenty. I am fortunate to have family and friends who love me for the man I’ve become, not some caricature of the man I was. To receive this non-transactional love and in spite of my weaknesses is an immeasurable gift every day, and I don’t want to take any of it for granted.   

It seems to be human nature to grow more weary and grumpy with age, and I’ve got my fair share of grievances and sadness for things I’ve experienced over the years and that I see today. But I cling to the naivety of my youth that it may tarry and not dissipate into the lachrymose norms of a man my age. I choose daily to believe that the human condition, such a glorious tragedy, groans for profound freedom. I believe there is a real purpose to this human experience, and the joy of just being in the cast of this story is more than enough. 

Growing older has its pains, physically, emotionally, and spiritually, but it has its gifts too. Having not much left to prove and the collective experience to know the limits of my and others’ capabilities is a freedom to pursue the things I truly love and to spend my energy with that which I most cherish. At forty-nine, staring down at a half-century of existence, ole Ferris was wiser than I thought: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it".

I do appreciate the kindness and all the birthday gestures. Whether you’re an old or new friend, a friend in business, a friend in the community, or just following along for the entertainment, thank you, and I wish you all the joy and peace in life. I’m coming for you, FIFTY, looking forward to that senior vibe! 

As the news of a Georgia brewery closure makes the headlines and folks feel at liberty to take a collective dump on years of hard work and independent entrepreneurs doing all they can to survive, I’d like to give my two cents. First, Jekyll Brewing and founder Michael Lundmark were always friends and good neighbors to Reformation and me personally. Because of this direct connection, I am heartbroken to hear the news of their closure, simply because I identify with all that’s at stake. We both started our brands and businesses around the same time, over a decade ago, when the Georgia Craft Beer industry was still developing. It’s hard to summarize, but suffice it to say Jekyll was part of the initial campaign to set beer free through SB85, which allowed our industry to survive almost a decade ago.

Unfortunately, additional reforms have been far too slow for many in our industry as we continue to face an oppressive state regulatory environment that is far from free, fair, or open. Even small reforms to our regulatory system are met with the strongest resistance in the political theater. Independent Georgia Breweries continue our struggle to meet our customers outside our limited premises. This lack of access has forced some breweries to adapt to other models that unfortunately come with additional high risk on top of an already volatile post-pandemic market and ever-rising costs. For too many breweries in Georgia, these realities have just been too much to overcome, and reforms to regulations that would free them from just surviving to thriving have been completely obstructed. Unfortunately, for some, they view our industry as direct zero-sum competition rather than a collaborative effort that raises all ships. 

Collaboration truly defines the independent craft beer industry. I was reminded of that again last week at the annual Craft Brewery Conference in Indianapolis. We truly share so much in common while each bringing our own unique stories and vision to the communities we serve. Less than a week ago, Sun King Brewery was a gracious host, not only to our industry but also to the Reformation team, as they treated us so kindly. Taking time during a crazy week and evening of hosting our industry to show my crew and me around the brewery, answering all questions, and sharing collective pride in our craft. There was no measuring of size, there was no gloating, there was no self-righteousness, just community. It’s truly the best of all that we do as an industry. So it’s sad when anyone in a community suffers a loss. 

I welcomed Jekyll to Woodstock when they expanded a few years ago and have since enjoyed the brewery multiple times for pub crawls or a meal. It all felt part of a larger community, a friend supporting a friend. Michael and I have kept in touch over the years. It’s not my place to get into details, but Michael had a personal tragedy in the earliest days of Jekyll. I, along with many others in our industry, grieved this personal loss and stood beside a friend in life’s most difficult days. Those are the moments that matter. I reached out again this morning, and yes, today is another difficult day for my friend. Yes, we were competitors, but that aspect doesn’t define the whole relationship. This is not a zero-sum game we’re all playing. Yes, competition is fun, hell, my wife and I compete with each other, but it doesn’t make me happy to see anyone hurt or humiliated over a competition. Competition should make competitors better, I think that’s the whole point. Not really sure when or where we lost that vision. So I choose to be sad regarding the news of an independent maker, entrepreneur, and friend losing a business. I will weep with those who weep. There is real freedom there. It takes the focus off me. 

"My death has been greatly exaggerated" -Mark Twain. 

Likewise, the death of craft breweries has been highly exaggerated. If you’re any type of follower of independent craft beer, the headlines are less than positive for the industry. Combined with social media disinformation and personalities whoring themselves for clicks and likes, you’d think the end is near. But let’s look at some real data. While it’s true that the industry has experienced for the first time in decades a closure rate that outpaces new openings, it’s hardly catastrophic. In our nation in 2024, we saw 399 craft brewery closures compared to 335 new openings. Yes, the market has matured and we will see a slowdown and some contraction as market economics take shape. And yes, Georgia, specifically, must modernize its regulatory environment to catch up with the rest of the country to make our state the best state to operate an independent small brewery business. But let’s not kid ourselves with tropes or trends. Independent well made and well-managed craft beer isn’t dying and is established in the Americana culture from which we’ve come. We’re all a little different and bring personalities and values from which our stories originate and unfold. And that’s a good thing that would be tragic to lose. 

I believe we now share a lot in common with American folk music. Folk music is music that originates in a specific culture through the generations. Amercian folk music is as diverse as America and captures the values and stories of various cultures throughout our nation. Occasionally folk music even comes into popular “fashion” throughout American history and then falls out of fashion, but it never dies because it's rooted in something more than a trend. We intentionally differentiate it from pop(ular) music. I’d argue that when it’s “out of fashion”, less popular, or when it speaks in contrast to the prevailing winds of culture; the greatest folk songs get created. Likewise, the American craft brewing industry originates out of the soil of America, representing its values, art, culture, and stories. There have been times when our industry falls into more popular trends with the prevailing culture, but the best of us didn't rise or build to merely stay relevant. Rather, we built to be authentic and offer something a little more real and representative from whence we came. 

I can only speak for Reformation, the independent craft brewery and distillery I’m privileged to operate, but we’re not holding back these days. We see a prevailing culture begging for something more freeing than the chains of these damn phones and self-help influencers ad nauseam. We see your brokenness, your fears, your hopes, and your dreams for freedom in something far more authentic. So we’re reinvesting in product quality and innovation, new markets, more experiences, and leveling up venues. We see even more opportunities to be part of the backbone of communities where we still meet face to face to listen and love our neighbors over a well-crafted beverage. We see the press, we see our overly exaggerated pending doom, but we're built different. We didn't build it with straw or sticks. We built it with blood, sweat, tears, and sacrifice. Things that don't blow away in the wind. 

So let the storms rage on. In a day when artificial intelligence captures the headlines and vapid dystopian narratives unfold on so-called “social media”, your local craft brewery will remain a city on the hill, a beacon of light, calling us to come home, to be human again. In every sense of the word, we offer a public house, to gather (together), to turn off the artificial noise, to look your neighbor in the eyes, and laugh, cry, and be full again. That’s not trendy, that’s not always sexy, it’s not even always cool, but it’s real, and we will be here welcoming you to a refuge of rest and a taste of freedom from the storms of life. 

It’s a new year. The time of feasting through the holidays is fading, leaving us with bellies and hearts full of guilt and shame and the weight of another year’s transgressions. And so we offer our resolutions, hoping it’ll be different this time. We will be better this year, we will lose some weight, reach that next rung on the ladder, and heal ourselves of the weight of a million lies. The relentless pursuit, the hustle, and the tiresome motivations are here again. 

Remind me, what are we chasing, what exactly are we resolving? Are we simply attempting to run away again from that which lives within us and can’t be run from? Will a few cosmetic changes, a little sanding, and rounding a few sharp edges make us whole again this year? Or is it something far more existential? 

I know that well-meaning resolve is hardly ever thought of as more than that. And I surely don't resolve to change anyone’s mind. But I can’t help but wonder if all this running and resolving are adding pounds to the weight of another self-improvement failure. What if there was some existential freedom from this weight of it all? What if there is a God that provides us a finalized freedom from the burdens of saving ourselves? And what if this God has already done something we could never do, and in that doing he has freed us from the relentless pursuit of saving ourselves? I’m not sure where you are with the whole God question, but at the very least wouldn’t freedom from the burdens of our ever-piling guilt and shame be objectively desirable? Could this freedom bring us a kind of cheer that all that the resolving leaves us short of?

Imagine being already enough; complete. Imagine living in light of a completed work, a job already finished. Would your perspective of work not change? If your daily work were not so tied to your identity, your outward appearance, your ego, your idols, etc. Imagine the freedom of work unhinged from the shackles of producing your salvation or even just the pursuit of more trophies. Sounds dangerous doesn’t it? A critic may say, then why work at all? Valid in the sense that you don’t have to work merely to achieve. Work was never intended to save us. Work existed in a beautiful garden before any transgressions entered the story. So what is work in light of already being freed from the burden of it? I’d argue that work is tied to another ancient word, called worship. 

Not to tarry for long, work and worship don’t just share a common etymology, they have a long ironic, and complicated relationship that can’t be fully explored here. But let’s not kid ourselves, today’s work ethos from corporate America or even communist China is very much a religion. The structuring and vocabulary are as religious as a Vatican mass, with promises of new freedoms just ahead with a little more, what? You guessed it, with a little more faith in the corporation or the government or the nation and with A LOT OF HARD WORK, your self-realization, your salvation is just ahead. And this is how we stay shackled to work of all types and never reach the unburdened freedom to work as an expression of freedom, gratitude, and worship. Any work is misery if it's just a mere attempt to pay off debt. 

But the debt is already paid in full, redemption is yours, declaring you loved, unconditionally, which means it has nothing to do with your works and your performance reviews and everything to do with a God of relentless grace. You are free indeed. Including the freedom to resolve or not. But perhaps more importantly freedom to cry, to doubt, to fail, to celebrate, to dance, and to flail aimlessly into the night. But you’re also free to rest. Rest in knowing all you ever need is never tied to your work or resolve, but to One who has already accomplished, finished, and paid it all. Happy New Year!

Sitting here taping my eyelids to stay awake and trying to process the last 4 days.

To start; just being away from our kids and feeling a sense of parental accomplishment. We've fucked up plenty in our attempt to raise them differently than either of us, but leaving them at home without really anyone but themselves to figure it out was a new level of anxiety as we left for Colorado. But they freaking crushed it from the moment we left. They got along and worked well as a unit to juggle each of their summer schedules with one driver. They genuinely loved every call and text with updates from our adventures in Colorado. This was an unexpected blessing of the trip, and gave us both and especially Paula, she's more the worrier, a sense of freedom that they're going to be alright. 

Then there's the local business that we've been grinding on for ten years. From start-up, to screw-ups, to sustaining, to scaling, to a global pandemic, to resetting, to managing 100s of other humans through the years. It's awesome in many ways, but I can't deny it has taken plenty of years off of me. But this trip confirmed further, I've got the best crew I've ever had. Like the kids this kid shined too. Another real sense of freedom to be able to leave it in good hands. 

And then there's the trip itself. Being with my wife without the outstanding distraction of kids or a small business, really gave us time to be in love. Just the act of taking a trip for our own relational benefit; the selfishness of it felt pretty damn good, and proved redemptive. We have a good life at home, but getting away, this far away, together, with the freedoms experienced above just took the character of our love to the next level. The facets of our love are not all beautiful and there are hard chapters in the story that still don't make sense. I have no idea where the story goes from here, a new chapter may begin tomorrow, but the chapter at this moment is mighty fine, and this trip revealed that gift we've been blessed with these past 25 years. 

And you know you might ask the "what" questions regarding the trip. What did you see? What did you eat? What did you DO? And as much as we saw, experienced, and DID; none of those particular "whats" really mattered.  The "whys" and the "whos" is all that really mattered. Our friends, our community, in a place far from home yet it never felt more like home. The pride, the joy, the love, the grace that got shared and tossed around as indiscriminately as confetti was the real power. 

Some might say we rolled a lot of natural 20s on this adventure, I'll just call it glorious!

Some say “time heals all wounds.” Not sure I agree. Goss, my grandfather would’ve been 94 today. He’s been gone for 20 years, I was 25 when he passed from this world. I think I miss him more now than ever before. Not a day goes by I don’t think of him in some way, and I mostly think about just how gracious he was in all things. His example of living a life of grace toward me, speaks to me louder today than it did during the first 24 years of experiencing it firsthand. 

Man, I took it for granted. I just thought he was nice and that Goss was great at his role as grandpa. Having navigated a bit more of life myself these last 20 years into becoming a middle-aged man has given me newfound love and respect for how Goss lived, how he saw the world, and loved his family. I’m not sure if Goss thought all that much about grace, but I do know the example he set for me hasn’t faded with time. Just the opposite, his life of grace preaches deeper to me today than it ever did while he was living. 

Goss kept life and others in perspective. I never once heard Goss tell me the shortcomings of another human, but I remember seeing his kindness to me, to his family, and to many others. If you were a kid in the community while Goss was working the Canton Post Office, the Midget Market, Cain’s, Kay-Way, or Macfarland's; you probably have a Goss story. Just the other day, I had an older gentleman tell me a story about Goss from when he was a kid and Goss showed him a simple act of kindness. I’ve met many of you over the last 20 years and love every one of these stories. They confirm what I knew and know of my grandfather. A small yet gracious giant of a man.  

Happy Birthday, Goss! I’m so fortunate you were my grandpa, but even more grateful you showed me what real grace looks like. There is nothing more I’d rather do today than to share a pint and introduce you to your great-grandchildren. Your great-grandson shares your name and a lot of your looks. I hope he grows up to be a lot like you. You haven’t been around to show the way in this wild millennia we are in, but your life continues to echo in the chambers of my experiences. I can’t thank you enough, miss you, and love you always- Bryan

Happy Reformation Day! Today marks the 504th Reformation Day and the 8th anniversary of Reformation Brewery. I feel like I’ve said a lot of words marking this occasion over the years so this year I’m gonna save a few. I simply want to say thank you for the love you share with me and with Reformation Brewery. The past year was full of challenges personally and professionally, but one constant has remained; your support. Because of your love and support through the challenges, the future remains a road full of promise. I’ve never been more committed to executing my personal values and vision as well as those of Reformation Brewery. I’ve learned so much over the last 8 years about myself, the community, and this business and brand. Primarily I’ve learned it’s all bigger than any 1 person, any 1 brand, any 1 purpose. One of my favorite appreciations of reformer Martin Luther kind of sums up where I am this year. 

“Luther [was] a kind of artist who at his best transmuted his personal sufferings into theological ideas that can inform an utterly compassionate vision of Christianity as a religion of honesty and mercy for suffering and screwed up human beings.”

From one screwed-up human being to another, I am humbled by it all and I hope there is no better place to be in order to serve you and love you even better in the days and years to come. 

Halloween is such a fun day. I know there’s already a lot going on today and I hope you get to spend it with your loved ones. If you’re around downtown Woodstock, feel free to stop by the backyard at Reformation. My son and I will be grilling hot dogs around 6, there will also be sweet treats for the kids, some live music from our own Kurt Wheeler, and then we will settle in to watch the Braves become World Champions. But fair warning, when all this happens, I’m gonna straight man cry all over you. Go Braves!

Twenty-two years ago I believed the good news of Jesus Christ. I was not a part of nor attended any church. By God’s grace, the message of the gospel was delivered and I finally received it in a postal truck while delivering mail. Over the next 20 years, I experienced just about everything one can experience in our modern church models. I took a deep dive into church and into the Christian culture, but I never felt fully at home there. I went to seminary hoping to become a cross-cultural missionary, thinking that’s exactly where God would want me. He initially led me to himself largely void of Christian culture and so it made sense that to serve the same purpose, to take the good news and apply it cross-culturally.

I came into the church as an outsider. I was welcomed literally with open arms by some of the most loving and gracious Christians. They loved and served me well. But as much as I was accepted there was always a part of me that didn’t belong no matter how much I fought it. My experiences before I became a believer, while not unique, did give me a perspective on evangelical culture that was always unsettling. I left for seminary to get it all straightened out (that's a joke, you don't get straightened out there). Seminary was great in so many ways but didn’t help my perspective that the church’s mission to reach the nations was largely futile as it was being practiced in the church. I learned that 70% of Americans today have no interest in attending a church gathering of any type. I also learned that only 20% of Christians have any idea about Matthew 28. Those statistics reflected what a challenge it is to make any headway in terms of reaching others with the good news of Jesus Christ. Only 30% of Americans are even interested in a church gathering and only 5% of those within the church have any idea what it means to reach them. These are not winning odds and yet the massive resources of the church are misapplied with little to no care for what doesn’t work. While I don’t doubt the well-meaningness of so many Christians and churches, the model simply isn’t working in relation to reaching unbelievers. How many more resources will we waste on models that get so few results? Those questions weighed heavy on me year after year.  

So I set out to change it from within. I took an outreach minister internship from my home church in hopes of starting something that had never been done in the 200 year history of that church. I found some success by certain measurements. So then I started a nonprofit ministry and set out to connect the community of believers (lots of churches) into the community of need (lots of different needs), seeking to put the church directly in front of unbelievers in hopes that real conversations, culture, and redemption would occur. Others joined me and perspectives were changed, mine at the very least. 

Eventually, a group of folks desired to plant a church that would seek out the community of need and do church in a much more simple way focused on doing life with one another and intentionally spending time with unbelievers. I was all about that missional church life and it was good for a season. I was much more comfortable in this Christian wasteland, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling of still being an outsider in an evangelical world that I had been finely groomed into everything I thought I wanted.

Then came the brewery. It was originally nothing more than a missional community started from our church to meet others in our community and get to know them over homebrewing. And it grew. And grew. And grew to become Reformation Brewery, a legitimate business. I quickly began to see something new that this venture was doing. It was bringing people together that I had longed to see together. It happened when I stopped trying to force it to happen. It taught me a lot about the gospel but it also brought its share of disdain from the Christian community. I felt the ostracism deeply. Over time I made the very difficult decision to let go of the church ministry and see where God might take me next. Little did I know he would lead me deeper into the underground.

I am now almost two years removed from formal vocational ministry. Some might say disgraced by my vocation as the CEO of a brewery. But never have I been more at home. While I will never outrun (nor do I desire to outrun) my history, I am in a position now that I only dreamed about 20 years ago and would never have dreamed of the context in which I’m found. I’ve learned more in the last 2 years about myself, the gospel, and others than I had in the previous 20 years combined.

I’ve lost contact with some good friends but I’ve gained incredible new ones. Reformation Brewery is a mess of people. But it’s my underground outpost, my new home where I get to know all kinds of people and serve them what I’ve been served, grace upon grace.

It isn't sunshine and rainbows, but God is rich in mercy and beauty is found in the strangest places. I find the power to live this life is found in the freedom of the gospel that gives me the great freedom to risk and to rest. I can risk the most because I have the least to lose and can rest in a work that's not my own. 

Social media is a complete dumpster fire of idiocy and fallacy. However, nothing is truly new, idiocy and fallacy have followed us all of our days. But what is truly sad is the loneliness, alienation, and lack of influence in our impatient digital age. Perhaps it’s time for the resurrection of analog. And yes, I do recognize the irony of this being a digital post shared through social media. 

Is it time for an analog reformation? Let me be clear, to embrace analog is not to embrace nostalgia for the sake of nostalgia. There is no goal of rolling back the digital age to some arbitrary point in the past where things were “better.” Whatever point we would pick, we are not willing to sacrifice the improvements that innovation and technology have brought society. Nor is embracing analog about freezing the status quo, halting the digital age where it stands and refusing to innovate or progress. There is no clearly defined status quo to preserve.

Rather, as we indulge our digital urges, might we come to a fuller awareness of all the nuance of the analog world? Every new digital proficiency reveals two or three analog experiences or responses that we’d never really been aware of, that we had taken for granted. Appreciation and intentionality of analog experiences might just bring us deeper connection to the world in which we live. 

Furthermore, analog is very human as it deals with our condition with honesty. We encounter variation minute to minute, hour to hour, day to day, month to month, year to year. Digital is less human, it’s in love with data, accuracy, and has an intolerance for variances. It seeks to manage. Humans and the human experience have proven difficult to manage. We are inaccurate beings, but also beautifully nuanced. We can be both short sighted and wise, impatient yet honorable, sinful and saintly and everything in between, which gives life purpose and meaning. 

So here are some suggestions for embracing analog. 

First, embrace the human experience fully. Humanity will never be fully digital nor should it be. Life is more full and free when analog and digital are balanced. Get outside, go to the concert, the ballgame, or live theater. Eat something indulgent now and then, play a board game. Analog will bring experiences that a digital rendering will always lack. 

Secondly, don’t settle for mere digital descriptions of reality. The essence of analog is direct and present without the need for translation. Most of human history has been experienced in analog and their lives were just as full as any in the digital age. The description of truth will never be as real as the experience of truth. 

Finally, don’t be seduced by the digital siren call. Digital is not all that revolutionary, and the latest, greatest next digital advancement is not going to fundamentally change anything. Beware that unbalanced digital consumption can blur our very real senses and numb us to analog living. Digital will always be easier to measure and we live in a time where measurement is itself a quasi-religious act that’s easy to control. Humans are created to be free. With freedom comes the unpredictable, the gift of surprise. Digital is a fake sovereign, we should resist the urge to bow before it. Embrace analog, you might just find something real in the some of the simplest experiences. 

"You know we live in a post-Christian context and Christians need to come to terms with this reality as soon as possible or risk being pushed further to the fringes of society."

"So much of our American Christianity is just the good life defined by the American dream. Working hard, acquiring stuff with a very thin veil of Jesus-overlay."

"I find that sad. We have served them to the point that their comfort trumps the gospel. Did our collective success make them into what they are? Did we win? At what cost?"

"Maybe we've reached more people and given then a lovely idea of 'church' and 'community', yet left them without any of the crushing or outstanding news. Our best news is the American dream? Ouch." 

"That dream is a relic for so many. And perhaps that is the opportunity. There is a reality that gives you more grace, more peace, more joy, and more freedom than anything you've ever dreamed possible. Gospel freedom must be real. But we must immerse ourselves into this mess of society. We helped create it."