What You Just Saw Greg Doing

Suppose you haven't seen Greg for forty years.

You pull up to a house one afternoon and there he is, doing handyman work. Maybe he's putting up a fence. He's measuring something, carrying lumber, driving screws, cleaning up—ordinary work.

Except Greg is singing.

Not humming absentmindedly. He's deliberately singing a song while he works.

So you might naturally think, “Greg likes to sing while he works.”

That's true.

But it doesn't really explain what you just saw.

In Greg's mind, you have stumbled onto something much larger.

You have walked into one little scene in an experiment that Greg believes Jesus Himself has been conducting on Greg for years.

And Greg has a very specific religious way of describing what he thinks has happened to him:

What does “wrought upon” mean?

That's old scriptural language.

Think of being worked upon, moved upon, changed, stirred, redirected.

Greg doesn't merely believe that he sat down one day and invented a clever lifestyle called “My Jesus-Greg WORLD.”

He believes something happened to him.

Or, more precisely, Someone happened to him.

Jesus.

Greg believes Jesus has been working on him—sometimes gently, sometimes strangely, sometimes through ideas that seem to arrive one piece at a time—and gradually changing what Greg wants his life to be about.

You don't have to share Greg's interpretation to understand what Greg believes.

Greg believes this process is miraculous.

He believes Jesus has been taking an ordinary, complicated human life and gradually turning more and more of it toward Himself.

And Greg believes he is beginning to understand where Jesus is taking him.

The destination has a very old name:

Greg thinks he's building little pieces of Zion

This is essential.

When Greg talks about building Zion, he doesn't merely mean thinking about Zion, writing essays about Zion, waiting for Zion, or predicting that someday God will establish Zion.

Greg believes Jesus is teaching him to practice Zion now.

Tiny pieces.

Primitive pieces.

Prototype pieces.

Sometimes almost laughably small pieces.

A pillow.

A shower.

A song.

A meal.

A nap.

An hour putting up a fence.

But Greg doesn't think of these merely as symbols pointing toward some future Zion.

He likes to think—and actually believes—that when one of these little experiments succeeds, a tiny but genuine piece of Zion has come into existence.

Not Zion in its fullness.

Not the completed promised world.

A prototype.

A fragment.

A seed.

But something real.

Greg's question is:

That's what you saw today.

Greg was trying to build one little piece of Zion while building a fence.

Why would Jesus care whether Greg sings while putting up a fence?

Because Greg believes the real project isn't the fence.

And it isn't even Zion.

The deepest project is love.

Greg believes Jesus is trying to win Greg's heart.

Not a little corner of it.

Not Sunday morning.

Not twenty minutes of scripture study.

Not a prayer before dinner followed by ten hours in which Jesus disappears from consciousness.

Greg takes seriously the ancient commandment to love God with all his heart, might, mind, and strength.

And Greg has come to interpret the word all rather aggressively.

If Jesus wants Greg's whole heart, what happens during the shower?

If Jesus wants Greg's whole mind, what happens while Greg listens to rock music?

If Jesus wants Greg's strength, what happens while Greg is carrying lumber?

If Jesus wants Greg's life, what happens during the ordinary Tuesday afternoon when Greg is putting up somebody's fence?

Greg's answer is increasingly:

So Greg believes Jesus has been teaching him how to give it to Him.

That's where the Jesus Pillow comes from.

That's where the Jesus Shower comes from.

That's where hundreds of redeemed classic-rock songs come from.

That's where Jesus TV comes from.

And now that's where the Work Scene comes from.

These aren't separate eccentric little projects in Greg's mind.

They are manifestations of one project:

And Greg thinks Jesus has a pretty powerful incentive

It feels good.

That's important.

Greg isn't imagining Zion merely as a gigantic religious obligation.

He thinks heaven feels good.

Peace feels good.

Love feels good.

Meaning feels good.

Being close to Jesus feels good.

Singing feels good.

Creating feels good.

Serving somebody feels good.

Being absorbed in something meaningful feels good.

Feeling that your ordinary life belongs inside a larger story feels good.

In short, being on Jesus TV and simultaneously watching Jesus TV feels good.

Greg has known enough darkness in life to understand the attraction of escape. His phrase “Heaven Can't Wait” grows partly out of that experience.

There have been times when Greg has desperately wanted heaven now rather than later.

But the answer he believes Jesus has been showing him isn't to end his mortal life in order to reach heaven sooner.

It is almost exactly the opposite:

Bring heaven down.

Give birth to little pieces of it.

Build something today that feels slightly more like the world you hope God ultimately intends.

That's why Greg's life-opera begins:

It doesn't mean, “I can't wait to die.”

It means:

Maybe some little piece of it can happen this afternoon while I'm putting up a fence.

That is Greg's idea of Zion

Greg's working intuition about Zion is remarkably simple:

If people love one another in heaven, start practicing here.

If people serve one another in heaven, start here.

If people experience God intensely in heaven, seek Him here.

And if the old human picture of heaven includes people continually singing praises to God, Greg has a mischievously literal response:

Start singing.

That's where today's handyman experiment fits.

Think of people singing while they work

Human beings have been doing this for thousands of years.

People have sung while harvesting, rowing, marching, building, carrying, washing, cooking, and performing countless forms of physical labor.

African American history contains especially powerful examples in work songs, field hollers, and spirituals among enslaved people. Their circumstances were radically different from Greg voluntarily doing paid handyman work, and Greg isn't comparing his circumstances with slavery.

He's noticing something human beings have repeatedly discovered:

People can work and sing.

People can work and pray.

People can work and praise God.

People can carry something heavy and sing about heaven simultaneously.

In fact, Greg suspects that if Zion really existed among ordinary human beings, that's exactly the sort of thing you might occasionally see.

People worshiping God throughout the day while simultaneously doing the work required to maintain an actual human community.

Somebody still has to build the fence.

Somebody still has to bake the bread.

Somebody still has to wash the dishes.

Somebody still has to fix the plumbing.

Somebody still has to chop wood and carry water.

Zion doesn't eliminate ordinary work.

And perhaps what ordinary work means.

That's what you saw today

Today is an experiment.

Greg has been blessed with a small handyman arrangement in which he's generally working about an hour a day.

That's perfect laboratory territory.

Instead of attempting some heroic eight-hour spiritual performance, Greg can begin with sixty minutes.

And he's beginning very slowly.

He isn't planning to sing constantly.

He's dividing the hour into roughly six ten-minute periods.

At intervals, he sings a song.

While he works.

Then another song.

While he works, again.

Maybe six songs during the hour.

Maybe something changes.

Maybe eventually there are twelve.

Maybe one day there are fewer.

Maybe some days the work demands concentration and Greg barely sings at all.

The point isn't to obey an arbitrary singing quota.

The point is to practice bringing Jesus into the Work Scene.

To breathe new life into work. To haver work become born again.

Another story must begin!

And you happened to arrive during Scene One

This is where the timing of your forty-year reunion with Greg becomes almost comically appropriate.

You didn't merely happen to arrive while Greg was working.

You happened to arrive during the first scene of the day's Work Opera.

And that first scene has an opening song.

Greg didn't choose a traditional hymn.

He chose the Scorpions' “Still Loving You.”

Except that's not exactly the song you heard.

The original song was already, in Greg's estimation, lovely, emotionally powerful, and praiseworthy in many respects.

But Greg believes Jesus has taught him to do something with songs he loves:

So Greg and Jesus, as Greg understands the collaboration, took Still Loving You and gave it another life. Breathed new life into it.

The melody remained.

The emotional architecture remained.

The enormous yearning at the center of the song remained.

But the object of that yearning changed.

Greg calls the redeemed song:

And Greg thinks the redeemed version is even more lovely, even more of good report, and even more praiseworthy because now the song points directly toward the relationship that increasingly organizes his life.

So if you drove up while Greg was putting on his work gloves and heard him singing, you weren't merely hearing background music.

You had arrived at the opening number.

The Jesus Glove Song

Greg also has another name for “God's Love in You.”

He calls it:

Why?

Because Greg wears leather work gloves.

And Greg has turned gloves into another one of his mnemonic devices.

That's a very Greg thing to do.

A glove is ordinary.

People put on gloves thousands of times without thinking about anything except protecting their hands.

But Greg is trying to populate his ordinary environment with things that remind him of Jesus.

So now a glove can preach a tiny sermon to Greg.

The sermon is extraordinarily simple:

A glove lying on a table can't accomplish much.

Put a living hand inside it and suddenly the glove moves.

It grips.

It lifts.

It carries.

It builds.

Something has entered it.

And Greg uses that physical reality to remind himself of what he believes Jesus has been teaching him about human beings.

It’s like the dead/limp glove has been “wrought upon” by the hand of God. Born again. And the glove has new purpose: to express a theme that is found in the overture of the Jesus-Greg Opera (“Heaven Can’t Wait - Born Again - Another Story Must Begin”), a theme that is expressed throughout the day: God wroughts upon people, God wroughts upon Greg.

Thus, Greg uses that physical reality (the Jesus Glove) to remind himself of what he believes Jesus has been teaching him about human beings: they are "wrought upon" by God’s Spirit and other less-heavenly spirits (thus, beware/discern)

The great question isn't merely:

The deeper question is:

Fear?

Pride?

Anger?

Shame?

Resentment?

Self-importance?

Or increasingly:

And not merely Greg manufacturing more Greg-love through willpower.

Greg wants God's love in Greg.

More love inside.

More of God's love inside.

Or, stated in the simplest and most radical version of Greg's theology:

Make room.

That's the Jesus Glove lesson.

The gloves become a mnemonic

So imagine the actual sequence you witnessed.

Greg arrives at work.

He has a real job to accomplish.

He reaches for his leather work gloves.

But because Greg has deliberately assigned meaning to those gloves, touching them triggers another thought:

And then:

And then:

And that cues the song.

This is exactly how My Jesus-Greg WORLD works.

The ordinary physical world becomes filled with mnemonic devices.

A pillow reminds Greg of Jesus.

A shower reminds Greg of Jesus.

Bread reminds Greg of Jesus.

A door can remind Greg of Jesus.

And now a pair of leather work gloves reminds Greg:

The object hasn't magically changed.

Greg has changed the association.

The glove has been, in his vocabulary, born again.

It's still a work glove.

But now it's also a Jesus Glove.

And because Greg has attached a song to it, the glove doesn't merely remind him of an abstract theological proposition.

It can start music playing in his head.

And sometimes, as you discovered today, the music comes out of his mouth.

So Scene One begins with a physical object and a song

Greg puts on the gloves.

The gloves remind him what Jesus has been teaching him.

And Greg begins singing:

The words are:

Time
It is time
To reach out to God again
In humble prayer
Your heart to share

Hope
God's your hope
When everything's fallen apart
He will be there
He will repair

Fight
God, will fight
To win back your love again
If you should stray
He'll find a way

Love
Jesus love
Will tear down the walls of shame
Praise ye his name
Let Christ now reign

Jesus died for you
Love him with all of your heart
Trust your God to change
The things, the things that you cannot

Pride has built a wall, so strong
That you can't get through
Now there's only one way
That you can be saved
~God you

Try
Lost soul, try
To trust in God's love again
Know he is there
Know he does care

Friend
God's your friend
Don't turn your best friend away
He's knocking now
Open somehow

Jesus died for you
Love him with all of your heart
Trust your God to change
The things, the things that you cannot

Pride has built a wall, so strong
That you can't get through
Now there's only one way
That you can be saved
God's love in you

Love in you
Love in you, so true
God's love in you

Love in you
Every single day, God's love in you

God's love in you
Love in you
Love in you, so true

God's love in you
Love in you
Love in you, so true

God's love in you
Love in you
Love in you, so true

God's love in you
Love in you
Every single day, God's love in you

Now notice what just happened

This is the entire project in miniature.

A pair of work gloves.

A classic-rock song.

A handyman job.

A memory device.

A religious idea.

A prayer.

A physical action.

A relationship with Jesus.

And an actual fence that still needs to get built.

None of those things has to live in a separate compartment anymore.

They can converge.

That is almost the entire architecture of My Jesus-Greg WORLD compressed into the first few minutes of a handyman job.

And that's why it matters that you happened to arrive during Scene One.

Without knowing any of this, you saw Greg putting on gloves and singing a strange version of a Scorpions song.

From Greg's perspective, however, the curtain had just gone up.

The set list

Think about a rock band.

Before a concert, the musicians have a set list.

They know:

Song one.

Song two.

Song three.

But a live performance isn't completely predetermined.

Someone talks between songs.

Something unexpected happens.

A musician extends a section.

The audience responds.

Maybe the set list changes.

There is structure and improvisation simultaneously.

Greg thinks that resembles what he's trying to build.

He can arrive at work knowing which songs he intends to sing.

That's the set list.

But he has absolutely no idea what's going to happen during the hour.

That's life.

((And that’s Jesus’ direct commandment: “Greg, as you play out the Opera across the day you are to proceed like Nephi 4:6, who said he went forth improv-style: "not knowing beforehand the things which I should do"

And that brings us to another strange Greg idea.

Greg thinks his life is an improvisational opera

Imagine that your entire life were an opera.

Except nobody handed you the script.

You don't know what happens in Act III because Act III hasn't happened yet.

You don't know who walks through the door tomorrow.

You don't know whether today's fence takes one hour or three.

You don't know whether the drill breaks.

You don't know what conversation happens with the homeowner.

You don't know whether you're happy, tired, frustrated, inspired, distracted, or laughing.

That's why it's improvisational.

Greg doesn't have to manufacture a story.

He's already inside one... ((It’s a Biblical story. Yes, Jesus and Greg are creating their own version of the Bible: the Jesus-Greg Version (JGV)).

So today Greg isn't pretending that he's an actor playing a handyman.

The fence really is the fence.

The widow really needs the work done.

The money is real.

The sore muscles are real.

The mistakes are real.

The interruptions are real.

But Greg is experimenting with imagining (using his sacred imagination) that this ordinary hour is also a scene in the much larger story of his life with Jesus.

So when Greg arrives at the worksite, in his imagination he is also:

That's what you saw him doing.

And the songs themselves have already been through this process

Many of the songs Greg sings aren't traditional hymns.

They're classic-rock songs he has rewritten. ((Actually, to be precise, Greg believes that Jesus reveals the new lyrics to him via full, direct revelation----and that the new lyrics actually count as literal scriptures for Greg to place in the Bible (JGV), in the Book Of Redeemed Songs.))

He's taken music that has lived inside his head for decades and changed the words so that the songs now point toward Jesus.

So imagine Greg carrying a board across a yard while singing a melody you've known since the 1970s.

You recognize the tune.

But then you realize:

Those aren't the original words.

Greg has rewritten them.

That's intentional.

For Greg, the song has been redeemed.

Or, using another phrase central to his thinking, it has been born again.

The old melody remains.

The memories remain.

The musical energy remains.

But the song has been given a new center.

Jesus.

And notice the pattern.

The classic-rock song is born again.

The pillow is born again as a Jesus Pillow.

The shower is born again as a Jesus Shower.

The work glove is born again as a Jesus Glove.

Ordinary work is born again as a Jesus Work Scene in a heavenly Opera (under construction).

And Greg himself believes he is continually being born again.

That's why the second phrase in the title of his opera is:

The work itself may eventually become more expressive

Today Greg is deliberately keeping things simple.

He's not trying to dance around while operating power tools. ((Though Greg senses it is just a matter of time before Jesus adds “Worshipful Dance” to the scenes he has been rehearsing.))

He's not acting out characters.

He's not turning fence construction into musical theater.

He's trying to learn one basic skill:

That's enough for Version 1.

But Greg can imagine this developing.

Maybe eventually there is spoken narration.

Maybe there are spontaneous lines.

Maybe something that happens during the work becomes part of the performance.

Maybe the rhythm of chopping wood becomes musical.

Maybe carrying something becomes part of a scene.

Maybe silence becomes part of it.

Maybe Greg starts a song and suddenly realizes that what he's doing requires his complete concentration.

Then he stops singing.

That's not failure.

That's the improv.

The work gets a vote.

If you're using a dangerous saw, you concentrate on the saw. ((And maybe start planning for how the saw will be redeemed, and become a "Jesus Saw"))

The purpose isn't to prove your devotion by injuring yourself while singing about Jesus.

The purpose is integration.

Can work, attention, creativity, service, music, and worship begin occupying the same hour?

But there's another thing you should know: you're going to be able to watch this develop

Remember: you stumbled onto an early prototype.

Maybe an extremely early prototype.

Greg doesn't expect what you saw today to look like what he'll be doing a year from now.

And Greg believes Jesus is eventually going to have him make that development visible.

That's where Jesus TV enters the Work Scene.

Imagine coming back one year from today.

Except this time you don't have to drive to the worksite.

You pull out your phone.

You turn on your television.

You open YouTube—or whatever platform Greg is using by then—and there is Greg.

He's back at work.

Maybe he's building another fence.

Maybe he's repairing somebody's porch.

Maybe he's chopping wood.

Maybe he's fixing a door.

There are cameras positioned around the worksite.

Greg is mic'd up.

And you're watching a rehearsal of the Work Scene of Heaven Can't Wait — Born Again — Another Story Must Begin.

Maybe you're watching live.

Maybe you're watching yesterday's recording.

But now you have something remarkable that you didn't have when you accidentally stumbled onto Greg today:

“He's getting better at it”

Imagine watching with your wife.

Scene One begins.

The gloves go on.

You recognize them immediately.

You tell your wife:

“Watch. This is the Jesus Glove thing I told you about.”

Then Greg begins singing “God's Love in You.”

And maybe you stop for a second.

Because it's different.

You remember the Greg you encountered a year earlier.

He was trying.

He meant it.

But he was clearly learning.

Now the work flows more naturally with the song.

The transitions aren't as awkward.

Greg isn't thinking so hard about when he's supposed to sing.

He's learned where the music belongs and where silence belongs.

He's learned how to sing without neglecting the work.

Maybe he's learned how to let the physical movement become part of the expression.

And you turn to your wife and say:

Greg would love that.

Because that's exactly what a prototype is supposed to do.

It develops.

Greg thinks Jesus has called him to be a rough prototyper

That's an important qualification.

Greg isn't presenting himself as the finished example of what this should look like.

Quite the opposite.

His sacred imagination—his own language for how he experiences and interprets some of these possibilities—is that Jesus has called him to be a prototyper.

And probably a pretty rough one.

Greg is comfortable with that.

A rough prototype doesn't have to be beautiful.

It has to make an idea concrete enough that you can finally see what the idea might become.

Greg expects practice to change him.

One Work Scene becomes ten.

Ten become a hundred.

A hundred become a thousand.

The set list becomes increasingly natural.

The transitions become more natural.

The relationship between song and physical labor becomes more natural.

The cameras become less distracting.

The microphone becomes something Greg forgets he's wearing.

And ideally, something much more important develops too.

The most important improvement may be invisible

You might be able to see that Greg has become a better performer.

But Greg hopes something is happening that the camera cannot completely show you.

When Greg sings about loving Jesus with all his heart, perhaps he's doing less acting and more loving.

When Greg sings about God's love being inside him, perhaps there really is more love inside him than there was a year earlier.

The performance might improve.

But Greg hopes the person improves.

That's crucial.

Because if ten years from now Greg has become a fantastic performer but hasn't grown in love, then something central to the experiment has failed.

The objective isn't:

The objective is:

The external performance should increasingly become an honest expression of an internal reality.

So you may watch Greg ten years from now and say:

“His singing is better.”

Greg hopes heaven could look at the same scene and say:

That matters infinitely more.

Jesus TV therefore becomes something like a ten-year time-lapse of spiritual practice

This is one of the fascinating possibilities Greg is beginning to see.

Normally we don't have much visual evidence of someone practicing a spiritual discipline over thousands of repetitions.

But cameras could make that visible.

Year One.

Year Two.

Year Five.

Year Ten.

The same gloves.

Maybe the same song.

The same basic Work Scene.

But a changing Greg.

Some changes would be obvious.

Some wouldn't.

Some years might even look worse.

That's real life.

But the archive would exist.

Jesus TV would therefore be more than broadcasting.

It would become a record of rehearsal.

And the rehearsal is the life.

Eventually technology may become part of the backstage crew

Greg can imagine something else developing alongside this over the next decade:

Not as God.

Not as a substitute for Jesus.

Not as a replacement for what Greg understands as the Holy Spirit.

Something much more mundane.

Think:

Greg is halfway through the Work Scene and suddenly thinks:

“What was the third song?”

Today he might have to stop and look at a piece of paper or his phone.

Someday he might simply ask:

“What's song three?”

And an AI assistant might answer.

Or perhaps Greg is wearing glasses that can display information.

The next song title quietly appears.

Maybe the first line appears.

Maybe the lyrics appear karaoke-style when Greg needs them.

Maybe the next scene is prompted.

Maybe a timer silently tells him:

The technology isn't determining what Greg worships.

It's helping Greg remember the structure he already chose.

Greg could still ignore it.

He could change the song.

He could feel prompted by the Holy Spirit to abandon the entire set list.

That's why this remains improvisational.

The AI has the set list.

Nobody has the script.

And other people could use the same kind of help

This is where Greg's rough prototype potentially becomes more interesting than Greg himself.

Suppose somebody watches Jesus TV and says:

“I don't want Greg's Work Scene. But I understand the principle.”

Great.

Maybe that person creates her own scenes.

Her own songs.

Her own reminders.

Her own practices.

Her own set lists.

And maybe AI helps her remember them.

She could ask:

“What was the third song in my Tuesday morning cooking scene?”

Or:

“Remind me what I wanted to remember when I put on my gardening gloves.”

Or:

“Show me the words I wrote for this part.”

Or perhaps ten years from now the technology simply recognizes the context.

She puts on the gloves.

Her glasses quietly display the reminder she previously chose.

She begins working.

Nobody needs to become Greg.

Nobody needs to sing the Scorpions.

Nobody needs a Jesus Pillow.

Nobody needs to call anything an opera.

Greg's prototype simply demonstrates a possibility:

Greg wants to remember Jesus.

Greg's life may eventually become one enormous karaoke conglomeration

Greg realizes there's something funny about where this is heading.

If you stand far enough back, My Jesus-Greg WORLD could eventually look like one enormous, interconnected karaoke system.

Wake up:

Song.

Shower:

Song.

Breakfast:

Song.

Driving:

Song.

Work:

Song.

Rest:

Song.

Different physical objects trigger different memories.

Different memories trigger different songs.

Different songs reinforce different teachings Greg believes Jesus wants him to remember.

And someday the technology surrounding Greg might know the whole structure.

Put on the glove:

Lie down on the Jesus Pillow:

another song.

Enter another room:

another reminder.

Begin another scene:

another set list.

It's like Greg has taken the ordinary architecture of daily life and started laying a musical score over it.

It’s like Jesus has wrought upon Greg to create a kind of temple---memory temple---with rooms, rituals, movements, progressions and discoveries.

And Greg likes that.

A lot.

Someone else might absolutely hate it.

They might say:

“Greg, the last thing I want is my entire life becoming karaoke.”

Fine.

Then don't build Greg's world.

That's part of the point.

Greg isn't trying to prove that everyone should inhabit My Jesus-Greg WORLD.

The name itself gives the game away.

It's Greg's prototype.

Someone else's Zion practice might contain almost no music.

But Greg loves music.

Greg's head makes movies.

Greg loves classic rock.

Greg thinks in scenes.

Greg thinks in stories.

Greg thinks in songs.

Greg thinks in scriptures….nay, Greg thinks he’s in in in scriptures. JGV.

So if Jesus is going to teach Greg how to remember Him throughout an ordinary day, it makes perfect sense to Greg that Jesus would work with the raw material already inside Greg.

The technology serves the remembering

That's the hierarchy Greg wants to preserve.

Jesus isn't there to improve the technology.

Technology is there to help Greg remember Jesus.

AI isn't there to replace revelation.

It can remember the set list.

It can display the lyrics.

It can cue the scene.

It can keep the time.

It can archive the video.

It can help organize ten years of recordings.

It can perhaps help somebody else construct their own practice.

But Greg believes the deepest direction comes from somewhere else.

Greg calls that:

But Greg believes he needs the Holy Spirit to help him discern whether the third song should be sung at all—and, if it is, to help him know what the new, improvised fourth verse should be in the very moment he is performing the song.

That's the difference.

The set list therefore never becomes the master

Think again about a rock band.

Before a concert, the musicians have a set list.

They know:

Song one.

Song two.

Song three.

But a live performance isn't completely predetermined.

Someone talks between songs.

Something unexpected happens.

A musician extends a section.

The audience responds.

Maybe the set list changes.

There is structure and improvisation simultaneously.

Greg thinks that resembles what he's trying to build.

He can arrive at work knowing which songs he intends to sing.

That's the set list.

AI may eventually know the set list too.

But neither Greg nor AI knows what's actually going to happen during the hour.

That's life.

And that brings us to another strange Greg idea.

Greg thinks his life is an improvisational opera

Imagine that your entire life were an opera.

Except nobody handed you the script.

You don't know what happens in Act III because Act III hasn't happened yet.

You don't know who walks through the door tomorrow.

You don't know whether today's fence takes one hour or three.

You don't know whether the drill breaks.

You don't know what conversation happens with the homeowner.

You don't know whether you're happy, tired, frustrated, inspired, distracted, or laughing.

That's why it's improvisational.

Greg doesn't have to manufacture a story.

He's already inside one.

So today Greg isn't pretending that he's an actor playing a handyman.

The fence really is the fence.

The widow really needs the work done.

The money is real.

The sore muscles are real.

The mistakes are real.

The interruptions are real.

But Greg is experimenting with imagining that this ordinary hour is also a scene in the much larger story of his life with Jesus.

So when Greg arrives at the worksite, in his imagination he is also:

That's what you saw him doing.

And the songs themselves have already been through this process

Many of the songs Greg sings aren't traditional hymns.

They're classic-rock songs he has rewritten.

He's taken music that has lived inside his head for decades and changed the words so that the songs now point toward Jesus.

So imagine Greg carrying a board across a yard while singing a melody you've known since the 1970s.

You recognize the tune.

But then you realize:

Those aren't the original words.

Greg has rewritten them.

That's intentional.

For Greg, the song has been redeemed.

Or, using another phrase central to his thinking, it has been born again.

The old melody remains.

The memories remain.

The musical energy remains.

But the song has been given a new center.

Jesus.

And notice the pattern.

The classic-rock song is born again.

The pillow is born again as a Jesus Pillow.

The shower is born again as a Jesus Shower.

The work glove is born again as a Jesus Glove.

Ordinary work is born again as a Work Scene.

And Greg himself believes he is continually being born again.

That's why the second phrase in the title of his opera is:

The work itself may eventually become more expressive

Today Greg is deliberately keeping things simple.

He's not trying to dance around while operating power tools.

He's not acting out characters.

He's not turning fence construction into musical theater.

He's trying to learn one basic skill:

That's enough for Version 1.

But Greg can imagine this developing.

Maybe eventually there is spoken narration.

Maybe there are spontaneous lines.

Maybe something that happens during the work becomes part of the performance.

Maybe the rhythm of chopping wood becomes musical.

Maybe carrying something becomes part of a scene.

Maybe silence becomes part of it.

Maybe Greg starts a song and suddenly realizes that what he's doing requires his complete concentration.

Then he stops singing.

That's not failure.

That's the improv.

The work gets a vote.

If you're using a dangerous saw, you concentrate on the saw.

The purpose isn't to prove your devotion by injuring yourself while singing about Jesus.

The purpose is integration.

Can work, attention, creativity, service, music, and worship begin occupying the same hour?

Because Greg isn't ultimately trying to make better television

He's trying to build Zion.

That's the distinction you have to understand.

The camera is a tool.

The microphone is a tool.

YouTube is a tool.

AI is a tool.

The songs are tools.

The website is a tool.

The opera is a framework.

The Jesus Pillow is a tool.

The Jesus Glove is a tool.

The Work Scene is a prototype.

And underneath Zion is something even more fundamental:

Heart.

Might.

Mind.

Strength.

All day.

That's the experiment.

Greg expects somebody else to do it better

Greg sees himself as a prototyper.

He's building early models.

Version 0.1 can look pretty ridiculous.

That's okay.

The first airplane wasn't a 787.

The first personal computer wasn't an iPhone.

A prototype demonstrates a possibility.

Then somebody improves it.

Greg expects something similar.

Maybe someone eventually watches Greg and thinks:

“I understand what that guy is trying to do, but I can do it much better.”

Excellent.

Maybe somebody is a better singer.

Maybe somebody is a carpenter and musician.

Maybe somebody understands video production.

Maybe someone develops a version for an office.

Someone else does it while gardening.

Someone does it while cooking.

Someone does it while raising children.

Someone does it with completely different music.

Someone doesn't sing at all but understands the deeper principle.

They don't need to become Greg.

That's not Zion.

They need to discover how their own ordinary lives can become more saturated with God.

Greg is simply making one prototype visible.

And that is where Greg imagines this being ten years from now

If you drive away today and don't see Greg again for another ten years, the thing you witnessed may look very different when you return.

Except perhaps you won't actually have to return.

You'll already have been watching.

Maybe you've watched Greg occasionally on Jesus TV for the entire decade.

You remember the awkward first Work Scenes.

You remember when there was one camera.

You remember when Greg kept forgetting the lyrics.

You remember when he had to stop and look at his phone.

You remember when the glove mnemonic was new.

You remember when the transition into the first song felt like Greg was consciously trying to make something happen.

Then, over years, you watch the practice become increasingly inhabited.

The songs aren't merely remembered.

They're lived.

The reminders become almost automatic.

The technology becomes nearly invisible.

Maybe the lyrics quietly appear in Greg's glasses when he needs them.

Maybe AI keeps track of the structure.

Maybe the cameras follow him without requiring much thought.

Maybe Jesus TV has become an enormous archive of an ordinary human being attempting to worship God inside ordinary life.

And maybe the thing you notice most isn't technological at all.

Maybe Greg appears more at home inside it.

More joyful.

More peaceful.

More expressive.

More loving.

Not because he's perfected anything.

But because he's rehearsed.

For ten years.

And all of it belongs to the larger improvisational opera

The title is:

Each part matters.

Don't abandon earth to get heaven.

Bring whatever pieces of heaven can be brought here now.

Songs can be redeemed.

Activities can be redeemed.

Work can be redeemed.

Technology can even be redeemed as a tool for remembering.

And, most importantly, human beings can continually be changed.

The old story isn't necessarily the only story available.

Something new can begin.

So what exactly did you see today?

You saw Greg trying to give birth to one very small piece of what he believes Zion might look like.

That's all.

And that's enormous.

You didn't see Zion completed.

You didn't see Greg claiming that his way is everybody's way.

You didn't see a polished spiritual master demonstrating the finished product.

You saw a prototype.

A rough prototype.

A guy.

A fence.

A pair of leather gloves.

A redeemed Scorpions song.

An hour.

And Greg trying to remember Jesus while doing something that ordinarily makes remembering Jesus harder.

But Greg believes the origin of that little experiment reaches much deeper.

He believes Jesus has wrought upon him.

He believes the changes occurring in his life are evidence of miraculous intervention.

And he believes Jesus is doing it because Jesus wants Greg's heart.

Not ten percent.

Not Sunday.

Not merely the explicitly religious parts.

And Greg increasingly wants to give it to Him.

So if you went home and explained all this to your wife...

You might say:

“I saw Greg today. I haven't seen the guy in forty years, and I found him putting up a fence and singing.

“At first I thought he was just singing while he worked.

“Turns out I walked into the middle of this enormous experiment he's doing with his life.

“And apparently I arrived during Scene One.

“He was putting on these leather work gloves and singing the Scorpions—or at least I thought it was the Scorpions. I recognized Still Loving You, except Greg had rewritten the words and renamed it God's Love in You.

“Apparently he calls it the Jesus Glove Song.

“I know. I had the same reaction.

“But once he explained it, it actually made sense.

“The gloves are a memory device. Every time Greg puts them on, they're supposed to remind him that what matters is what's inside. He wants more of God's love inside him—more God inside him. So the gloves cue the thought, and the thought cues the song.

“And that's basically what he's doing with his entire life.

“Greg believes Jesus has been changing him for years. He calls it being ‘wrought upon.’ He believes it's miraculous.

“And he thinks he finally understands something about where it's going.

“He thinks Jesus is teaching him to build little pieces of Zion.

“Not build a city tomorrow. Little pieces. A song. A shower. A meal. A pair of gloves. An hour of work. He's asking what ordinary life would look like if more and more of it were filled with an awareness of Jesus.

“And apparently the reason is even simpler than Zion.

“Greg thinks Jesus is trying to get Greg to fall completely in love with Him—to love Him with all his heart, might, mind, and strength.

“And Greg thinks heaven is basically where that relationship is completely alive. He's had times when he wanted heaven desperately, and instead of escaping this life to get there, he believes Jesus has been teaching him to bring little pieces of heaven down here.

“That's why he calls his life-opera Heaven Can't Wait.

“He means: why should everything heavenly have to wait?

“If people are going to sing praises to God in heaven, Greg says, ‘Okay. Let's start singing now.’

“So today he was working for a widow, putting up a real fence that really needed to be built, and every so often he sang one of these classic-rock songs he's rewritten about Jesus.

“He's treating it like a set list, but also like improv, because he has no idea what's going to happen during the hour.

“He calls the work period a scene.

“And here's the weird part: apparently I'm going to be able to watch Greg get better at this.

“He says eventually he'll set cameras around the worksite and be mic'd up. He'll broadcast or record these Work Scene rehearsals on what he calls Jesus TV—maybe on YouTube or whatever platform makes sense.

“So a year from now we could actually watch Scene One again.

“And I could tell you, ‘That's the glove song. That's what he was trying to do when I ran into him.’

“And maybe we'll laugh because he's gotten a lot better.

“But Greg hopes something else has gotten better that we can't completely see.

“He hopes he actually loves Jesus more.

“He doesn't just want to become better at performing worship. He wants to become better at worshiping.

“He calls himself a rough prototyper.

“And apparently technology may eventually help him. AI could remember his set lists, prompt the next song, or put lyrics in his glasses. But he doesn't think AI replaces the Holy Spirit. AI can tell Greg what song he planned to sing next. Greg believes the Spirit can tell him whether he should forget the plan and do something else.

“And eventually other people could build their own versions.

“They don't have to copy Greg.

“Because, apparently, Greg's personal version may eventually become one gigantic Jesus karaoke conglomeration.

“And Greg is completely fine with that.

“Actually, I think he loves the idea.

“Wake up: song.

“Shower: song.

“Drive: song.

“Work: song.

“Rest: song.

“Objects remind him of Jesus. The reminders cue songs. The songs remind him of things he believes Jesus has taught him. And all those little pieces begin joining together into this world he's building.

“But here's the part I finally understood:

“Greg doesn't think he's making a television program about Zion.

“He thinks he's trying to make actual tiny pieces of Zion and letting the television cameras watch.

“So when I drove up today, I thought I saw an old friend singing while putting up a fence.

“Greg thought I had walked into Scene One of an improvisational opera that Jesus has been writing with his life.

“And apparently Scene One starts with a pair of work gloves and an old Scorpions song that has been born again.

“The gloves say, ‘What's inside you?’

“The song answers, ‘God's love.’

“And then Greg picks up his tools and goes to work.

“And if we keep watching for the next ten years, apparently we're going to get to see what happens next.

“Because Greg doesn't know.

“The AI doesn't know.

“The cameras don't know.

“The audience doesn't know.

“Greg believes Jesus does.

“And the whole opera is about a man who couldn't wait for heaven and came to believe that Jesus was telling him:

“‘Then don't wait.

“‘Stay here.

“‘Let's start building some of it.’”

That's what you saw Greg doing today.