Centered

by Jason Brown

  My family and I were now prepared for the zombie apocalypse.

  But that wasn’t what God was telling me to do at all. And He was pretty angry about it.

  He spoke to me, just like Jesus spoke to Simon Peter (see John 21:15–19).

  Jason, do you love Me?

  “You know I love You, God.”

  Okay, I want you to feed My sheep. Jason, do you love Me?

  “You know I do.”

  I want you to take care of My people.

  But what did that mean? I knew He was asking more of me than just to buy food for the hungry, though I certainly had the means. He wanted more from me than to open up a grocery store.

  After I’d been told to pour it all down the drain, I’d been willing to do anything for God. I was begging Him to send me out like a prophet or disciple of old. I’ll cure the sick. I’ll raise the dead. I’ll risk shipwrecks and stonings. Just tell me what to do, God.

  But as I worked through the reasoning, I suddenly saw what God was truly calling me to do—what outrageous, ludicrous, crazy path He was ready to set me out on.

  “Hold on a second, God,” I said. “You want me to be a farmer?”

  Orchestrating the Exit

  Yep, God wanted me to be a farmer. But Tay didn’t know. The kids didn’t know. And the NFL sure didn’t know. I still had two years left on my contract with the St. Louis Rams. I might not be a starter anymore, but my team was counting on me. And if I walked away from my contract—a contract that was still making me a very, very rich man—I’d have to deal with lots of questions. If I quit football to become a farmer, most folks would think I had lost my mind.

  So I asked the Lord for some help.

  “God, I know You want me to farm,” I said. “You know I have two years left on my contract. Show me what to do. I know this is selfish, but make the transition easy for me. If You do that, I’ll farm for You.”

  That was late 2011. On January 2, 2012—after that miserable 2–14 season—Coach Spagnuolo was fired. Less than two weeks later, the organization hired Jeff Fisher as the next head coach, inheriting a team that’d lost sixty-five games in five seasons and had very little money through which to bring in free agents to improve the team.

  When a new coach comes in at the NFL level, he tends to clean house. He wants his coaches, his staff, his players. And he might’ve wondered how many players he could bring in if he got rid of my record-setting contract.

  A few weeks later, my agent called me.

  “Jason, I want to prepare you for this,” he said, assuming I’d take the news hard. “Jeff Fisher and his staff are thinking about releasing a lot of the team’s veterans, and you might be getting a phone call.”

  “Really?” I said. Praise God, I thought.

  “Hey, listen, Harold, don’t worry about it,” I said. “If they release me, it’s pretty likely that I’ll hang up my football cleats and retire.”

  The call from the coach came a few days later. I thanked him for the call and hung up. I wasn’t upset or worried or angry. Not in the least. In fact, I was thrilled. Jeff Fisher in his entire career has probably never fired somebody so happy to be fired.

  I was free to pursue what God was calling me to do in a way that, to the outside world, would look completely rational. I didn’t have to quit and walk away. I didn’t have to answer awkward questions about why I’d give up a multimillion-dollar career to be a farmer. I didn’t have to worry about people calling me crazy. I was cut. It happens all the time in the NFL. Many players retire shortly thereafter. Some players go on to new, unexpected careers. Chicago Bears linebacker Brian Urlacher went into acting. New England Patriots cornerback Ty Law opened a trampoline park. Former Patriots quarterback Drew Bledsoe started a winery. When Coach Fisher let me go, he took my job, but he gave me control of my own narrative. To the outside world, it would look as though I naturally just gravitated toward farming, following in my grandfather’s footsteps.

  It was time to tell Tay my crazy idea about—

  Ring!

  It was my agent, Harold.

  “Jason, I know you’re thinking about leaving the NFL, but you can’t.”

  “I can’t?” I said.

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “There are three teams that want to sign you to a long-term deal right now.”

  Despite my prayer, God wasn’t going to make this easy.

  Temptation

  I didn’t care what Harold said. I was done playing football. I didn’t want to freeze to death in Buffalo or Green Bay. I didn’t want to melt in Miami or sign a contract with the Denver Broncos and spend the next several seasons gasping for air. Only a handful of teams would’ve made me pause even the slightest.

  “Three teams, huh?” I said. “Which three?”

  And when he named the three, I paused. They were the top three teams—the only three teams—that I would’ve loved to have been a part of.

  “The Carolina Panthers,” Harold said.

  I was a Carolina boy, born and raised. My family, my history, my roots in the region go as deep as a white oak tree’s. I thought back to my conversation with Brew when I was preparing for the draft: the Panthers were my dream team. And if I signed with them, my parents could go to every game. They’d be thrilled.

  “The 49ers,” he said.

  The 49ers are located in one of the most beautiful cities in the country: San Francisco. The weather is mild all year round. More importantly, Tay had grown up in the San Francisco Bay Area. I might be a mama’s boy, I might like to stay close to family, but Tay’s a mama’s girl and she’d always wanted to relocate to be closer to her own family. “Jason, if you ever get an opportunity to play in the Bay Area,” she’d told me numerous times, “if you ever get an opportunity to play for Oakland or San Francisco, you take it.”

  My agent said the third team: “The Ravens.”

  The Rams had pulled me away from the Baltimore Ravens with their huge free-agent contract. I would’ve loved to have stayed in Baltimore. If they would’ve matched or come close to the money the Rams offered me in 2009, I would’ve stayed. I got my start there and had my first real professional success playing for the Ravens. Wouldn’t it be great to finish my career there? For many professionals, that’d be a dream.

  I was determined to follow God’s will, and I knew that what He willed was for me to be a farmer. Part of me—a selfish part—tried to convince myself that maybe playing football for a while longer would fit in God’s plan too. God, maybe I can play just a few more years. Make just a little more money. Then I can go to North Carolina and be a farmer, just like You want me to be. Hey, maybe I could have my cake and eat it too!

  Deep down, I knew that wasn’t what God wanted. He’d already made His will known to me, clear as day.

  That didn’t stop me from considering those other possibilities.

  “You’re Not Supposed to Be Here”

  JW and I flew into Charlotte to visit with the Carolina Panthers first. My parents met us at the airport, and I knew that signing with Carolina would make them the happiest mom and dad in the world.

  At the hotel, Mom could see that I was troubled.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  I wasn’t ready to tell her that God was calling me to a different career—that he was asking me to scrap football for farming. I couldn’t tell her that even this visit felt like a sin, as I was ignoring God’s will to follow my own.

  “Yeah, Mom, everything’s fine,” I said evasively, trying to pacify her. “I just want to make the right decision.”

  The visit went better than I could’ve ever hoped (unfortunately). The Panthers’ offensive-line coach, John Matsko, was my o-line coach in Baltimore, and I liked and respected him. I checked out
the weight room and the training facilities, and they were all top notch. The Panthers finished 6–10 in 2011, but rookie quarterback Cam Newton looked like a star in the making—the sort of star who could lead a team to the Super Bowl. (He did just that four years later.) Head Coach Ron Rivera, heading into his second year, had a reputation of being a player’s coach.

  But when I walked up to Coach Rivera—an ex-linebacker and a huge man in his own right—and shook his hand, something weird happened.

  “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  If you’re curious as to what the voice of the Holy Spirit sounded like, it was a deep, rumbling bass. It was so real that I looked over my shoulder to see where it was coming from.

  And then I realized that Coach Rivera was talking.

  “So, we can go upstairs and work out a deal right now,” he said. “You ready?”

  The voice of the Holy Spirit was still echoing in my head, like the reverberations of a huge bell.

  “Umm, no,” I said. “I need just a little time to, you know, think about it. And, umm, I’m gonna have to go.”

  I was out of there quick.

  When I met my parents afterward, they looked so excited. They figured their son had signed a new contract. My football-loving mom had the biggest smile on her face—a smile full of anticipation.

  “Are we going to be Carolina Panthers?” she asked.

  “No, Mom,” I said. “I didn’t sign a contract.”

  I’ve seen my mom look more disappointed in her life only once before: when she caught me stealing when I was fourteen years old.

  No one wants to see that sort of look on his mother’s face.

  I was making decisions about my career, my future. But she and my dad had an emotional stake in that future too. All parents have dreams for their children. They want their kids to be happy and successful and secure. The NFL, with all its money and fame, offered plenty of success and security. To turn my back on that—well, who could blame my parents for being disappointed?

  I spent so much of my life playing the people-pleaser game. As much as I wanted to make my parents happy, I saw that desire to please people as a trap, something the world, not God, tells us we should do. That’s true even when it comes to family and friends, those people who love you and want only the best for you. You want to see them happy. You want to give them joy. But at the end of the day, there’s only one opinion that matters, and that’s God’s. Not my mother’s, not my father’s, not my wife’s. God’s.

  Thy will be done, not mine.

  The Holy Spirit made His wishes clear. I was done with visits. The 49ers and Ravens would just have to find someone else to play on their offensive lines. I knew what I had to do now.

  But even if my dreams had taken a new turn, my agent was still on the same NFL road.

  Shortly after my visit to the Carolina Panthers facilities, Tay and I went to San Francisco—not to visit with the 49ers, but to visit Tay’s parents. Soon after we arrived, I received an unexpected call.

  “Hey, Jason,” the voice said. “I hear you’re in town.”

  It was Greg Roman, the offensive coordinator for the 49ers—and the assistant o-line coach for the Ravens when I played for them.

  Greg barreled on before I could say much. “Listen, I’m just getting back into town myself, and I’d like to have you see our facilities, man—see if we can’t work out a deal.”

  I hemmed and hawed a little. “Well, Greg, I don’t know if I’ll have the chance,” I said. “I’m out here to spend time with my family.”

  Tay heard. Tay knew full well who I was talking to. “Oh, I’ll watch the kids,” she said with a knowing smile. What she meant was, You need to meet with the 49ers because this is something that I’ve wanted for a long time and, if you sign, you’ll make me the happiest wife in the world.

  So, I agreed to meet with Greg, and when I arrived, he told me everything I wanted to hear—every trigger word that might get me to become a 49er.

  You could be a part of something special here. You’ll be one of the team leaders. We’re about to build a new billion-dollar stadium. You’ll be playing in the best arena the NFL has to offer.

  It didn’t matter. As Greg was telling me all this, another voice was talking to me too.

  You’re not supposed to be here.

  I got back to the hotel, and Tay was primed for good news. Tell me the words I want to hear, her look told me. Tell me you signed a contract. Tell me that I’m the happiest wife in the world.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not going to be playing for the 49ers.”

  The smile vanished. Now Tay was angry.

  “So what’s the deal, Jason?” she asked. “You turned down the Panthers. You turned down the 49ers. You don’t even want to visit the Ravens. Those were the three teams you said you wanted to play for! If you’re not going to play football, what are you going to do?”

  I took a deep breath and I spilled it.

  “Dear, God is telling me that we need to sell our home in St. Louis and move back to North Carolina,” I said. “He’s telling me to purchase some land there. God is telling me that…He’s telling me that…He wants me to be a farmer.”

  Stony silence.

  “What?” Tay said finally. Then she slipped into sarcasm. “Jason, I’m so happy God is sharing all these things with you, because He’s not sharing any of this with me!”

  I understood how hard it must’ve been for Tay to hear me talk about farming. I knew that this was as unexpected as getting struck by lightning—and maybe, at first, just as painful. But I knew, I knew, that this is what God wanted for me. For us. And so I poured it all out. I told her everything that God had laid on my heart—every crazy calling. I told her about Ducie, about Joseph, about everything, about how God was healing our marriage, about how He was redeeming our family, about how He wanted me—us—to serve people in a very real, very tangible way.

  I want you to feed My sheep. God told me this. I knew my football-playing days were done. I was being called to a different field.

  New Playbook

  Tay sat there and listened to me. She listened to it all. She didn’t buy into the whole dream, not right then. But she received much of what I had to say with grace and an open heart. She believed I’d heard a call from God. She knew how much I’d changed in the last several months: from a selfish, inconsiderate football player to a man who was trying to follow God as well as he could. She saw the work that God was doing in my life. As for the rest? Well, she was willing to trust God, and trust me.

  She took a leap of faith for me. She wasn’t completely sold, and I didn’t blame her. What a huge change I was asking her to commit to—to turn our backs on the comfortable lives we’d lived, the success and wealth we’d gathered, and dive into a new, strange life, embracing a career neither of us knew much about. It was a scary step for both of us. But I had an advantage: I knew that this next step was being orchestrated by God. I knew that He would pave the way for us. Tay wasn’t in on those conversations. She just had to take my word for it—the word of someone whom, just months before, she was ready to divorce. It must’ve been terrifying.

  But the vows she took in 2003—to love, honor, and obey—weren’t just words. They were a solemn promise. And in that moment, what must’ve been one of the hardest moments of our marriage, she chose to embrace that promise. She had a faith like Paul’s, a faith that could move mountains.

  People sometimes ask why I didn’t just start a charity, like normal rich people do: use my position as a football player to draw attention to the problem of hunger; use my money to buy food for the people who need it.

  But that’s missing the point. God didn’t call us to throw money at the problem. He called me to be a farmer. He called me to this unique ministry. In that, I’m
able to find peace and joy where I could not find those things before.

  “The foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men,” 1 Corinthians 1:25 says. To the world, the leap that Tay and I made might’ve looked foolish. It might have looked just as crazy as David trusting a slingshot when facing a giant (see 1 Samuel 17:48–50), or as crazy as Moses trusting in a plague of locusts, or as crazy as a bunch of fishermen dropping their nets to follow a strange man with a strange message (see Matthew 4:18–22).

  For years, I’d tried to do everything through my own strength, my own power, my own understanding of how the world worked. What had it gotten me? A broken marriage. A broken family. A broken life. The world’s wisdom told me I was a success. I knew it was a lie. I was a lie. I’d built a career on spray-painted grass and artificial turf. God told me to dig deeper, to sink my hands deep into the earth and pull goodness out of it. Then He told me to pass that goodness on.

  God had been trying to reach me through the story of Joseph, which He brought me back to again and again. Jason, I haven’t been blessing you this whole time so that My blessings could stop at you; I’ve been blessing you so that My blessings could flow through you.

  I could see how true that was and how far I’d messed up His blessings.

  The most famous passage in the Bible is probably the twenty-third psalm, which begins with the line “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want” (KJV). Everybody loves it when, in verse 5, it talks about how our “cup runneth over.” And as Christians, we often feel how true that is. Every single one of us is a cup. Every single one of us is a vessel that God pours into, and that goodness spills onto the people around us.

  But in my life, when my own cup started to overflow, I’d say, “Hold on a second, God,” and grab a bowl. When that started running over, I’d say, “Hold on a second,” and grab a pitcher. And then a bucket. And then a barrel. I didn’t want to lose a drop of God’s blessings. I wanted them all to myself. I didn’t want those blessings to spill into other people’s lives, into a wider world thirsty for God. Those were my blessings. Mine.