It started with so much hope.
In late 2024, as I peered into 2025, an aspirational mantra emerged: Thrive in ’25! It made me feel energetic, grounded in possibility and ready for anything.
But then, as years sometimes do, 2025 delivered disruption. I won’t list my particulars. If you’ve ever had a season of upheaval, you know how these things go. And of course I am not alone: From layoffs to ICE raids to natural disasters, 2025 brought misery upon many people.
So the mantra changed to Survive ’25.
And that, I suppose, I did.
As you may know, as painful as it is, surviving can have some benefits. Surviving strips away the inessential. We learn about ourselves, we see our people more clearly, and we often have to face some tough questions: What do we want to carry forward? What are we ready to lay down? Who are we becoming? How will we write the next chapter?
I’m not quite ready to thrive or flourish yet — it was a really rough year — but I know it’s time to quit playing defense. So I’m stepping toward something that feels necessary, if a little uncomfortable: Risk in ’26.
This new mantra, with its admittedly forced rhyme, might not sound inspiring. In fact, it might sound exhausting. But here’s why I think it matters.
The world around us is undeniably what leadership experts refer to as VUCA: volatile, uncertain, chaotic and ambiguous. For those of us leading in congregations, nonprofits, institutions and faith communities, it means that the approaches we once trusted no longer deliver the same outcomes. What used to work, doesn’t. And the belief that next year will look like last year? That illusion has been shattered.
In a world like this, the only way forward is to learn. And the best way to learn is to risk. Not reckless risk. Not change for the sake of change. But the kind of faithful risk that invites discovery, reflection and formation. We don’t need more perfect plans. We need more “little bets.”
Leadership author Peter Sims, in his book “Little Bets,” describes small, low-cost experiments that lead to insight and innovation. They don’t begin as breakthroughs. They begin as curiosity. And failure isn’t the enemy; it is a part of the process. We try something, reflect, adjust and try again. In this way, we learn our way into the future.
I think this is a sound leadership practice and spiritual posture. Scripture is full of people who took faithful risks in turbulent times. Abraham left home not knowing the destination. Esther risked her life for her people. Peter stepped onto the water without knowing if he could stand. Paul changed direction after an encounter he didn’t expect. None of them had certainty. But they took the risk.
Beyond Scripture, the Christian tradition is rich with risk-takers: Benedictine communities rewriting the rhythms of life in chaotic Europe. Women and men resisting empire with nonviolent courage. Black church leaders who preached justice in the face of violence. Saints, reformers, teachers, pastors.
Christian history is written by those who walked into uncertainty, were led by the Spirit, and were sustained by hope. And this moment calls for the same. Not just prophetically, but practically. What got us here will not get us to where we want to go. We’re going to have to take some risks.
This isn’t just an intellectual exercise; even my workout instructors are inviting it. Recently, during a Peloton ride, the instructor offered a line that stuck with me:
The next time you stand up to pedal and climb the hill, add a little bit more to your resistance. This is where we experiment. Treat your fitness like an experiment, not a test. Trust yourself and see what happens when you try. See how far you will go. There is no pass-fail. This is how we grow.
So, what if ministry, leadership and formation were more like this? What if we saw our work less as a test to pass and more as an experiment to enter? It’s one we enter consciously, with curiosity, even if there is a little extra resistance.
It can be a difficult lesson to learn. Throughout my ministry, I’ve had the privilege (and challenge) of following beloved, long-tenured ministers. In each case, I entered the role as the new guy, stepping into a congregational “boat” already in motion. The job seemed obvious: Don’t sink the boat.
In each case I focused on stability. I defaulted to the past. I tried not to disrupt things. And when the boat did rock, I did everything I could to restore calm. I waited for the right time to make a change, but often these changes were far too small and far too careful.
Looking back, I think I was too cautious. Most people weren’t expecting me to be the previous person. They expected a leader. They anticipated change. And by playing it safe I missed moments to stretch. I failed to capture moments of opportunity, when people might have been ready for something new.
I see now that I needed to grow my capacity for risk. Not just to tolerate risk, but to lean into it. To see risk capacity as a muscle, something that strengthens with use. Something I’ll need more of in the years to come. And to see little experiments as opportunities to learn, not tests to pass or fail.
As we head into 2026, I believe the most faithful thing I can do is to grow my capacity for risk. Not for drama and not for spectacle. But for mission. For formation. And ultimately, for impact.
Cliché or not, the world is changing. Amid this change, in order to shape the future we long for and to be the church we are called to be, we are going to need to try some things we’ve never tried before. We are going to need to make small bets and take big swings. Some will fail. Others will surprise us. All of them will teach us.
But considering the long tradition of spiritual risk-takers we follow, I don’t think we’ll regret it.
