The Communion Revolution
Reconstructing Faith. Rebuilding Community. Reviving Culture.
A Movement of Radical Hospitality.
Redeeming the World with an Open Table and an Open Heart.
The Church I Dream of Looks Like a Table, Not a Stage.
Hi, I’m Matt—here’s my story.
Chasing this vision has turned my life upside down. I’ve sold my home, quit my job, moved across the world, and been tested in ways I never expected.
For years, I had no idea where this journey was leading—I just kept taking the next step. Until, finally, it all came together in The Communion Revolution.
I believe Christianity is at its best when we eat together. The church shouldn’t just talk about Jesus—it should actually live like He did.
If that means writing a book and setting a place at my table for you, I’m here for it.
Pull up a chair. Let me tell you the rest of the story…
The Call in the Darkness That Changed Everything
Dust stung my eyes as I stood at the U.S.-Mexico border, a 14-year-old kid on a 1999 mission trip with YWAM. I faced a weathered slab of wood, scarred with names—dozens, hundreds, too many to count, hanging on the fence. I squinted, confused, until my friend’s whisper cut through: “These are the ones who didn’t make it across.”
A chasm opened in my chest. Each name a life—swallowed by the desert, erased by injustice, gone chasing a freedom I’d never had to fight for (so I assumed). I stared, the list blurring as my eyes began to water, my junior-high brain scrambling to make sense of it. Poverty, death, borders—these weren’t part of my world back home in Canada. It was too big, too dark for me to reckon with.
That night, unsettled, I hauled myself up a dark Tijuana hillside with my classmates to pray. Below, the city flickered—weak, trembling lights drowning in shadow. Across the border, San Diego blazed, golden, unreachable—like a city on a hill. The gap clawed at me, a weight of injustice pressing hotter than the stale air. I felt small, lost, a speck against it all.
Then, in the stillness, I heard a Voice—quiet, steady, but not my own:
“No matter how vast, darkness can never overcome the light.”
I froze. The words sank into my bones. Heaven had cracked open in the dark—and I wasn’t alone. I didn’t know it then, but my life had just changed course. I stood not just between two countries, but two worlds—the earth’s mess and the whisper from beyond.
It was a call I couldn’t unhear—but where would it lead me if I followed?
I had no idea. But something had changed inside me. And when I returned home, I realized: I couldn’t go back to life as it was before.
Wrestling with a Calling I Couldn’t Escape
I came home starving—for answers, for purpose, for God. That Voice wouldn’t let me go. I had stepped across the border into something unknown, and now there was no going back.
Scripture became my obsession. I plastered my bedroom walls with verses—John, Psalms, anything that burned. On walks home from school, I’d preach them out loud, my voice bouncing off empty streets, piecing together a vision of God I barely understood.
I wasn’t just studying—I was chasing that whisper, clawing for the light in a world that felt dim. But I needed roots, and I found them in church history—digging into dusty books, tracing the roots of faith. The ancient voices pulled me eastwards: Celtic prayers, Anglican hymns, Catholic saints, Orthodox icons.
Then I found the mystics—John of the Cross, Teresa of Avila. And they didn’t just write about God; they burned with desire for Him. My evangelical soul yearned for that, not just the Sunday checklist.
Yet the deeper I dug, the lonelier it got. My friends in our small group didn’t care about the Desert Fathers or contemplative prayer. I’d toss out a Merton quote or a Catholic twist—just to see them squirm—and they’d stare back at me, blank, like I’d grown horns. I’d grin, call it a joke, but inside it stung. No one got it. I felt like a misfit, preaching to an audience of none.
College loomed—I finished my Bachelor’s in Ancient & Medieval History in 2007, planning to get an M.Div at Regent College, become a pastor, and preach this fire I had inside my bones.
I had a dream… But dreams don’t pay bills. Marriage, kids, the slow crush of responsibility—I blinked, and suddenly seminary was out-of-reach. I settled for a desk job, trading passion for a paycheque.
And with every passing year, the fire that once burned in my bones flickered—until, eventually, I barely felt its warmth at all.
But There Was No Room for My ‘Yes’
I wasn’t ready to give up. Even as the fire dimmed, I fought to keep it alive. I poured myself into leading small groups, desperate to share this passion for deep discipleship. Alpha Course, Bible studies—anything to teach, anything to make it matter.
But often, no one came. And that quiet rejection settled in—I wasn’t leading anyone, really. Nobody at church cared about this stuff, even a little bit.
Our church used a ‘free market’ to sign up for small groups—35 leaders, lined up in the foyer after service, pitching their groups like salesmen. I was thrilled about my idea: a study on the Gospel of Matthew.
I stood there for two weeks, smiling, inviting, hoping. Meanwhile, the basketball group pulled in 20 guys. The board games group filled their entire sign-up sheet. Even the “clean eats” group packed out.
But my sign-up sheet? Pristine. Completely untouched. Empty.
For two weeks, I watched them pass by, laughing, chatting, filling out forms—just not mine. By the end, I just wanted out—staring at that blank page, muttering, “What am I even doing here?”
I was walking along this road alone. And the alienation cut deep as my calling found no foothold.
But I wasn’t ready to let go—not yet. If I couldn’t find my place here, maybe I could carve one out.
So I went back to my childhood church, begging for a way in. Sitting in my pastor’s office, I spilled everything—my passion for Scripture, my love for history, my hunger to make disciples.
He sighed, leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “Look… I hear your passion. But without a seminary degree, we just couldn’t justify it to the Board.”
I left, gutted. This was the only thing I wanted, and the church said ‘no.’ No credentials, no degree. And maybe—no calling, no gift? Just a fire inside me… with nowhere to let it burn.
I didn’t know it then, but this struggle to find my place wasn’t because I didn’t belong. It was because what God was planting a vision inside me that wouldn’t fit inside a single church.
The First Glimpse of What Church Could Be…
By 2013, I’d spent years pouring myself into Scripture, history, small groups—doing anything to keep the fire alive. But the church kept saying “no.”
Empty sign-up sheets, locked doors. Everywhere I turned, I found rejection. I felt like a misfit, out of options.
Then my pastor, Robb, threw me a lifeline: an invitation into 3dm, a meal-based discipleship group. I almost skipped it—what was the point? I’d almost stopped believing I belonged in ministry, leadership… anywhere.
But out of desperation—or habit—God nudged me in.
For the first time in years, I tasted it. Something real, something alive. We gathered around meals, not pews. Discipleship wasn’t a program, but it was woven into real talk, real friendships.
It felt like Jesus breaking bread with His friends, not a study guide or checklist. It was warm and alive—like a home.
And just like that, the spark caught fire again. Maybe this was it—a glimpse of what church could be.
But it didn’t last. My wife longed to join her sister’s church plant, full-time. Staying tied to Robb and 3dm left me juggling two separate worlds, and that wouldn’t hold.
Just as I found a flicker, I had to let it go. Torn between loyalty and love—not wanting to introduce division into our home—I chose family. It was the right call, but it still stung like loss.
Then I turned 30. And it crashed down on me like a freight train. I was no young leader—just another guy with a Bible and no path forward. I was bleeding out. Every dream, every hope, slipping away.
Depression swallowed me up, like thick, gray fog. Had I wasted my life chasing a calling that wasn’t mine? The spark had felt real. But could it flicker again? Or was it lost for good?
I had no answers. But I kept walking forward—because what else could I do?
And then, one night, everything changed…
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A Message from Nowhere
November 19, 2015—my phone buzzes, a random Facebook ping.
It’s a message from Freddy, a guy I hadn’t seen in years. Hockey teammates once, theology sparring partners maybe, but not close friends.
And definitely not the type to say something like this: “What’s your dream, your fear? What’d you do if money didn’t matter? What’s more valuable: how, when, who, what, where?”
I stared. Was he hacked? MLM bait? I typed back: “Freddy, did you send this to the wrong guy? Cool questions, though—how have you been?”
Then, even weirder, he fired back: “No, this is for you, Matt. I believe our futures will connect, soon. God’s glory will blaze for the world to see. He’s got big plans for your family—and your heart’s almost ready. When He connects the dots, He’ll be calling on you!”
I blinked. It was cryptic. Slightly unhinged. My wife scoffed; I half-agreed. Random “words from the Lord” weren’t my vibe.
I didn’t buy it… but didn’t ditch it either. We messaged back and forth for a few days—me probing, him answering. And I liked Freddy. So I said, “Can we grab coffee?”
Then—he was gone. Deleted Facebook. Quit his job. Vanished. I haven’t heard from him since.
You’d think I’d forget about it. But I haven’t. Something about it stuck with me. Almost like he was turning a key in a lock I didn’t know was there. And strangely, as time passed, his words started to grow truer. Teresa of Avila says when a whisper from God won’t go away, it’s often the Holy Spirit speaking.
But what could it mean?
The Dark Night of the Soul
Freddy’s message dangled there—mysterious, untestable. I wanted to act, but there was nothing to do. So I waited… for four years, until waiting started to feel like its own kind of suffocation.
Days fused into one: wake, slog to a job I didn’t love, home, repeat. Each morning I sank lower. From 2015 to 2019, I trudged through a desert—just a slow, grinding wilderness. I felt like Peter from Office Space, when he realizes that every single day is the worst day of his life.
I prayed, read Scripture, went to church, and held faith. But God stayed silent—forgot me, maybe. Others got miracles—jobs, miracles, answers. I saw He was real. For me? Nothing. The long night stretched on…
Had I misheard? Was it just wishful thinking? Or worse—was this “calling” just my own pride?
In 2018, I finally admitted to a friend, “I’ve often wondered what Teresa of Avila meant when she said she couldn’t pray for 18 years. I get it now. If this keeps up, I don’t know if I’ve got the strength to keep it up much longer.”
Prayer felt like shouting at the sand in a desert. And Freddy’s ‘big plans’ felt like mockery.
By 2020, I told my nephew, “I think I’ve spent—literally—tens of thousands of hours studying Scripture, history, faith. Why? Other people become doctors after that much work. But this feels like it has no utility for me. At all.”
Everything I’d hoped for was a dead-end dream. Yet somehow—I couldn’t let it go.
Reaching the Breaking Point
By 2019, I had been nailed to a job I disliked for a decade. It was dull, draining—but bearable. Until I got promoted…
Instead of escaping, I was trapped. Locked in by ‘golden handcuffs.’ And I spiraled. Each morning, I’d wake up with a weight in my chest, cortisol spiking at the same point on my commute like clockwork. Evenings, I’d collapse on the couch—drained, hollowed out.
I’d loop the Joseph: King of Dreams soundtrack, feeling trapped like Joseph in prison, watching his dreams rot away.
Then I saw a career counselor. She listened. Took notes. Looked me in the eye. “This job will never be a good fit for you.”
And that was it—I couldn’t pretend anymore. Freddy’s whisper, Tijuana’s light, my job’s shackles. Every moment that once felt like a call now felt like it was taunting me. Had God just… left? Did He forget about me?
January 2020—I was done with the desert. I booked a week-long prayer retreat, driven by desperation, not just hunger. I needed clarity, a sign, anything. I couldn’t stay shackled to that job, any longer.
Seven days I prayed, stared at my Bible… the ceiling… the trees. Silence stared back. No visions, no breakthroughs. Just Gandalf’s voice in my head: “All you have to decide is what to do with the time that’s given to you.” (Not very helpful.)
I trudged home, empty, the dark night as thick as ever.
Then, early February—pre-Covid chaos—my wife sat me down. “I had a dream,” she said.
“A tsunami’s coming. God’s leading us through, but others won’t be ready. He’s setting us up somewhere new, and better.”
This wasn’t just a dream. It was a flare in the fog.
Our eyes locked, and we knew: “We have to get ready.” So we sold everything, and prepared to go wherever He called us. The Rich Young Ruler had walked away, but we wouldn’t. We’d say ‘yes,’ even if it took radical faith!
Where, when, how? We had no clue. But we felt it—something big was barreling in.
The Leap of Faith
March 13, 2020—we listed our house. Worst timing ever.
COVID locked down our province that morning. A blizzard dumped 30 cm of snow in Calgary. The market froze.
And it was Friday the 13th, just for good measure.
We got one showing. But two hours before they arrived, our furnace died. Of course, it did. My frazzled wife called me at work, trying to fix it.
Then she prayed, “God, fix this now!” She heard: “Put the panel back on.” She did—two seconds later, it roared back to life.
Then the couple came, offered exactly what we’d hoped for, and it sold. Amazing.
Next, we moved into a rental property we’d owned, planning to sell it as well.
Then I heard the Holy Spirit say, “Don’t worry—you won’t be here long enough to unpack your boxes.”
I told my wife. She smirked, “How is that possible? It’s chaos here—boxes, laundry, dishes. We can’t list it like this!”
Two days later, a realtor walked into our garage with a young couple, scoping out the unit next door.
“Do you like this complex?” they asked me.
“Actually, we’re listing this unit soon,” I said.
They lit up. “Can we see it now?” they demanded—mess and all. Fifteen minutes later, they offered our exact price.
My wife just shook her head: “That’s crazy.”
God was stacking up miracles.
October 2020—I quit my job. Ten years of drudgery—gone. But I had no career lined up—just trust in Jesus, like Peter dropping his fishing nets.
I wasn’t just leaping into the void—I had a vision. During COVID, a house church had popped up—six guys at first, just eating breakfast and watching church online. By summer, it had ballooned to 70 people. I joined a few months in.
And it hit me: this was 3dm reborn—meals, real talk, faith alive. Not just church, but something new. They’d stumbled into a hybrid model:
✅ Our local church’s teaching streamed online into homes.
✅ Fused with house church depth.
✅ Accessible, intentional, disciple-making.
I saw huge potential—exactly what I burned to do. Quitting my job was a leap into something vital. Money be damned.
We’d sold it all, followed the dream—God was moving.
Or so I thought…
When God Interrupted Our Plans
November 2020—one week after I quit my job. Our church hosted a conference. A preacher from Toronto took the stage.
Mid-sermon, he froze. Scanning the room, he pointed at my wife: “Who are you?” he asked. “You’re anointed to preach. God’s got a powerful calling on your life—but first, He’s leading you through a trust-exchange right now.”
The room hushed. We sat, stunned.
Afterward, he found us: “God wants you outside this box—your church, Canada. Trust Him to guide you and your family.”
Wild words. But we’d just shed everything:
✅ No job.
✅ No home.
✅ No backup plan.
We were ready for something new. Now, in front of 350 people, he was telling us: our whole life—city, church, roots—was too small for God’s plan.
My heart raced. Freddy’s message, the tsunami dream. The dots were connecting… weren’t they?
One week later—two weeks post-resignation. The hammer dropped.
Alberta outlawed at-home gatherings:
💰 $5,000 fines per guest.
⛔ No warnings.
💔 No exceptions.
If you were caught with seventy people in a house church? You’d be ruined. The lockdown hit. And our house church—meals, faith, that hybrid church—cracked under the strain. Anxieties flared, bonds snapped. It died. Fast.
We were unmoored: no job, no plan, no movement, no map. Just empty days. Locked in our home. Watching the dream was slip away.
Had I leaped too soon? Had we misheard? Or was God reshaping my vision into something I couldn’t yet see?
Sometimes, Dreams Die… Even in Australia
Early 2022—we went all-in.
My wife enrolled in Hillsong College in Sydney for a worship music program—a fresh start, outside of the box.
We sold everything left—furniture, cars, all of it—and hauled our family across the world with only six duffle bags. We thought we’d stay for three years, or maybe forever. Why would anyone choose to leave Australia?
So we rented a house, bought beds, and started building a life.
Then—out of the blue—Hillsong axed her program. She was enrolled on Tuesday. By Wednesday, it was gone. No warning. And our student visas? They were tied to it.
We only had 28 days to leave. We had just sold everything to move there, and now we were scrambling to sell it all again—just to leave.
Mid-chaos, my sister Kathleen died. The call gutted me. Suddenly, we had to go back home. We landed in Calgary hours before her funeral.
I carried her casket with my siblings, stood by her grave, then faced a room of familiar faces, choking out words about who she was and what she meant to me.
That day I buried her—along with my Australia dream, my sense of purpose, and my certainty that we’d been led by God at all.
The final twist: my old job opened up. Same desk, same screen, same grind I’d fled. They offered; I took it. We needed it.
I returned to the office, sitting in the cubicle I’d once dreamed of escaping. I questioned the leap, the losses, the point of it all. It felt like a fever dream. But it all had happened—a disaster.
And the worst part? The next 200 people I saw all wanted to hear the story—reopening the wound again, and again, and again.
Freddy’s “big plans,” the preacher’s “trust-exchange,” Tijuana’s light. Had God lead me here just to leave me? Or had I just been chasing shadows all along?
Everything was gone: Australia, my sister, our savings. I had no answers.
But I had one last dream. Since May 2021, I’d been writing a book. And I knew now—I had to finish it…
A Glimmer of Hope
In the months after Australia, I was drowning in grief. Back at my old cubicle, facing the same grind I’d fought to ditch. I punched the clock, paid bills, nodded at coworkers, but inside? Weary, alone.
Had I misread it all? God’s call to sell everything, quit, chase Australia—had it all been a mistake? Was this desk, this “normal,” His whole plan for my life? I didn’t know; I couldn’t know. But family and friends sure seemed to think so.
September 2022—Practicing the Way held a conference in Portland, Oregon. My wife and I made our way to Bridgetown Church. We’re big John Mark Comer fans. And I half-hoped to meet him—maybe tell him how my book’s vision aligned with his.
But God had something else in mind.
On Tuesday night, Tyler Staton called folks forward for prayer. And I hesitating, but then shuffled up. A stranger’s hands landed on my shoulders. And as he prayed, it all came crashing in—losing Kathleen, losing Australia, losing hope.
Mid-prayer, he paused: “I believe the Lord’s got something to say to you, son…”
He inhaled deeply. “He’s given you a warrior’s spirit—and you’ve got everything you need to accomplish all that you have on your heart to do.”
I nearly laughed—like Sarah in Genesis. A warrior’s spirit? Then why did it feel like I’d already lost?
Plus the dream in my heart isn’t small. Not just writing a book, but starting a movement. Renewing and reuniting the Church.
How could I achieve that? All I’d seen were:
❌ Shut doors.
❌ Crumbling plans.
❌ Disappointment stacked on disappointment.
Freddy’s “big plans,” the “trust-exchange.” Now this? “Warrior’s spirit.” How do you square that with zero wins?
But I remembered Tijuana—stubbornly—“Darkness cannot overcome the light.” And that vision of 3dm and the house church, it wouldn’t leave me.
But could it shine?
A Cookbook, A Coach, and a Crisis of Confidence
May 2021—unemployed, adrift after the house church died. I had no plans, no direction.
Then I stumbled onto the idea of self-publishing. I had no grand ambitions or dreams of becoming an author. But I knew a guy making money selling Kindle books, and thought, “Maybe I could try that?”
One problem: I had no clue what to write about… or how to write.
Then, before she passed, Grandma Sue left us a cookbook, 📖Come for Dinner—her legacy of hospitality, a call to open your home. And suddenly, I knew. That was it!
Christians should invite neighbors over, break bread, build real community—a simple idea. But this wasn’t just hospitality—it was discipleship, the kind I’d been chasing since 3dm.
I sat down and started typing. No idea what I was doing. No structure. I wasn’t a writer—but I spat out 20,000 words, a tangled mess of hope and chaos. Then I sent it to a writing coach, Sarah. She read it, and said, “This is rough, but we’ll work on it.”
From 2021 to 2023—even through the chaos of Australia—I wrote. And rewrote. Again, and again, and again. Scrapping pages, reworking ideas, chasing a vision of tables, faith, discipleship.
“But what is the main point I’m making anyway?” I’d ask myself.
Sarah would read, think, and respond: “Better, but still not good.”
I was stuck, rewriting the same thing over and over. Making no progress. Just hoping that someday, I might not be awful at this… Until one day, Sarah said, “This is quite good.”
I’d had to grasp and claw for over two years, bloody-knuckled, before I got that praise. But quitting? Not an option. Not after everything we’d gone through.
Because I believed in this too much. It wasn’t just a book—it was my heart. My fight to finish what God had started. But writing a decent book? And after two years, I had finally written something that was ‘quite good.’
But was ‘quite good’ enough? Or had I just wasted two years writing something that no one would ever bother to read?
Rock Bottom
Mid-2023—I’d been back at my cubicle a year, suffocating.
I needed something to hold onto. So in January, I joined SoulFormation—an 18-month academy in spiritual formation and direction. It felt like a lifeline. Until I hit a snag…
My finances were sinking, fast.
✅ Australia had gutted us.
✅ Canada’s cost-of-living was running away.
✅ Debt was stacking up.
I was desperate. So I tried an Amazon side-hustle. It had nothing to do with ministry, just survival. I poured some cash into an inventory of flashlights, banking on it working out.
But it flopped, bleeding us dry. By November, debt was crushing us. We filed a Consumer Proposal—not bankruptcy, but close enough.
I had told a friend, back when I quit my job: “I’ve always said that I believe God provides, but now I’m going to find out if it’s true!”
Now, after selling everything, following Him, and losing it all… I couldn’t even pay our bills.
It reminded me of something St. Teresa of Avila said, after her carriage broke down in a ditch: “Lord, if this is how You treat Your friends, no wonder You have so few of them.”
I wasn’t stuck in a ditch—but I was cloaked in failure. I had nothing left to fall back on—no house, no savings, no security.
Going to church didn’t help much. I wasn’t met with encouragement, but judgment. People with stable jobs, houses, and retirement plans, looking at me like a cautionary tale.
Between their thin smiles, polite nods, and careful words, I could almost hear their thoughts: “Some people just have to learn the hard way…”
At my first SoulFormation retreat, we went around the room and shared why we were there. When it was my turn, I hesitated—then admitted what I had been carrying for months: “I feel homeless.”
Because I was. Australia hadn’t worked out. But Canada didn’t feel like home anymore either. And worse, I felt like I no longer fit in at church.
Everyone loves a testimony with a happy ending—but mine? It didn’t make sense: “We sold everything, moved to Australia, and lost everything.”
People would say, “Maybe it just hasn’t worked out yet.” I wasn’t sure anymore. What are you supposed to do… when your testimony doesn’t fit the script?
Truthfully, if I had known how brutal this journey was going to be, I probably wouldn’t have said “yes” back in 2020.
And I often wondered, “Am I even following Jesus, or am I just a fool?”
Yet, in the ashes of it all… I still believed.
The Darkest Night Yet
By now, you’re might be wondering what the breakthrough was… There was no breakthrough. I just kept plodding on. Clocked into my cubicle, scraped our pennies, and showed up for my family. And I kept writing this book.
Four years of rewriting, endless drafts, coaching calls with Sarah. Every few months, the theme would shift: first the Beatitudes, then communal discipleship, then Jesus’ dinners, and finally reviving the agape feast.
Each shift took months to piece the ideas together, like a 20,000-piece jigsaw puzzle with half the edges missing.
Early 2024—Sarah finally said: “It’s good enough to send to advanced readers.”
Feedback trickled in—mixed, tepid.
“It’s good, but…”
“Something’s here, but it’s not quite there.”
“Interesting, but is it really about hospitality?”
After a million words, endless rewrites… I still didn’t know. “Am I any good at this? Will anyone care?”
Or was this just going to be another dream I’d bleed for, only to watch it flop?
October 2024—I hit ‘publish.’ I had no dreams of being a bestseller, just a flicker of hope. Maybe this was it, the door God would crack open.
A few friends and family bought it.
✅ “Way to go!”
✅ “So proud!”
✅ “Big accomplishment!”
They smiled, I nodded.
Then came the casual congrats from folks who wouldn’t crack the cover:
“Heard you wrote a book. Cool!”
“What’s it about? Awesome!”
“I’ll check it out sometime!”
But it all felt hollow. There was no buzz. No spark. I grinned, said thanks. But I knew—they weren’t actually interested.
This was the worst part: not failure, just indifference.
After leaps of faith, risks, years of grinding, endless sacrifice… I put it out into the world. And everyone shrugged.
Loneliness clawed at me, exhaustion sank deep. I could feel it building—tight chest, breath shallow, heart hammering. Panic attacks started.
Like Frodo at Mt. Doom, I felt naked in the dark.
But what about that Tijuana whisper—“Darkness can’t overcome the light”? After all of this… where was the light now?
Hearing the Old, Familiar Voice in the Darkness
Why has all of this happened? What sort of story is this?
I wish I had a triumphant, hero’s journey to share with you… but I don’t. At least, not yet.
Four years, bleeding into a book nobody knows about. Leaps of faith, dreams crumbling. How could this wind up with a happy ending? How could anything good come from so much that’s gone wrong?
In these moments of deep disappointment, I turned to the Lord in prayer. An Ignatian colloquy. And in the darkness, I still hear His now-familiar voice:
“Matt, I’m making you wait… so that every aspect of this revolution is done by faith.”
“Nobody will be able to tell your story, as if you made it happen by yourself. No, you took a dream and a prayer, and you wrote a book, and a course, and cast a vision. And nobody noticed or cared. Even though it cost you everything. But you kept going, just because you believed.“
That’s the truth. Every step of this journey had been a step of faith.
I didn’t write this book to try to make money. I only wrote it to invite people to the table, to show them what it looks like to:
✅ Open our homes.
✅ Break bread together.
✅ Build real spiritual family.
Not just attend church.
But after years of writing, rewriting, praying… after pouring everything I had into this vision…I still wonder: “Have I spent years working on something that was never going to matter?”
I told my wife all this. And she just smiled and said, “In childbirth, there’s always a moment where you feel like you can’t go on, like you’re just done. But that’s when the nurses know—the baby’s coming.”
So maybe that’s why it feels this way: I’m giving birth to this project. Maybe these breaking points are just the birth pangs of something new, something better.
I’ll guess we’ll see…
The Radical Decision to Give It All Away
I spent a few months, doing what authors do. Trying to shape it, promote it, make it work. But something wasn’t sitting right. This book was never meant to be a product—it was supposed to be an invitation. To dinner.
Yet here I was, putting a price tag on it. Because that’s just what you do on Amazon. $0.99. Not much. Practically nothing. (Let’s be honest, my share would only be $0.35). But that tiny price turns this invitation into a transaction. It turns hospitality into a commodity. And that’s never what this was about.
I don’t want people to buy an idea. I want them to step into a life of faith. I don’t want them to add another book to their Kindle library. I want them to open their doors, set their table, and break bread with their neighbors.
And if a single dollar stands in the way of someone doing that? Then I don’t want it.
After all, Jesus never charged anyone for an invitation to His table. When He sent His disciples out, He told them: Take nothing. No silver, no gold, not even an extra tunic.
“Freely you have received, freely give.”
This was always meant to be a different kind of kingdom. Not built on scarcity, but abundance. Not driven by transactions, but by faith. And that’s the heart of The Communion Revolution.
I see a future where…
✅ Tables connect people across neighborhoods.
✅ Strangers become family over broken bread.
✅ Faith revives in people’s hearts.
✅ The lonely find a spiritual home.
✅ The church remembers what it was always supposed to be.
This isn’t triumphalism, but a humble Kingdom built through quiet, faithful acts of love. A revolution that doesn’t demand success—only surrender. A call to live like Jesus, one table at a time.
And that’s why this isn’t a side-hustle. It’s not a business.
It’s simply a call to return to the way of Jesus—opening homes, breaking bread, building family.
It’s about giving without expecting anything in return. So that’s what I’m going to do. That’s why I’m giving the book away.
Not because it’s worthless.
Not because I don’t believe in it.
But because it’s too valuable to sell. Because an invitation to the Communion table should never come with a price tag. Even if it’s only $0.99.
What If the Church Looked Like Jesus Again?
I don’t just want to write books about Jesus. I want to live like Jesus. Personally, and in community. And if writing this book and inviting you to dinner is what it takes, then let’s do it!
My prayer is this:
When you stop selling and start giving, everything changes. When you give something freely—something that speaks to the heart—people lean in. They respond. Not because you push, but because you let go.
Back in Tijuana, I stood on a hillside, staring at the city below. Darkness stretched on for miles.
And then, a whisper: “No matter how vast, darkness can never overcome the light.”
That night, I didn’t fully understand. But now, giving this away, I finally do.
Light doesn’t require us to hustle. It just needs us to shine.
So… what comes next? Truthfully? I don’t know. This might catch fire. Or it might be ignored.
But I know what I have to do. I don’t have to push this vision—because it was never meant to be forced. It was always meant to move on its own, powered by the Holy Spirit.
And that’s not up to me—it’s up to God.
And it’s up to you. If this vision stirs something in you… don’t wait. You don’t need me to build this for you. You can invite a friend for dinner, and you can start right now.
This story isn’t over. It’s just getting started—waiting for you to help write the next chapter.
If this story moved you, share it with someone who needs to hear it.
Ready to Start a Revolution?
Jesus didn’t just invite people to a sermon—He invited them to dinner.
This isn’t just a book. It’s an invitation to something bigger. A movement of radical hospitality that could transform your faith, your home, and your community.
📖 Get your free copy of The Communion Revolution
🏡 Start Your First Agape Feast
1️⃣ Invite 1-2 friends or neighbors for a simple meal.
2️⃣ Share life, faith, and friendship—no agenda.
3️⃣ See what God does when we open our doors.
💬 Want to go deeper? Read my blog series on how this ties into Tim Keller’s vision for a renewed church. Read here.