For a long time, I lived as a man divided by an invisible fence. On one side lay the quiet, hallowed ground of the ministry; on the other, the wild, brambled thickets of the outdoor world.

I thought I was a traveler between two separate countries, never quite belonging to either.

But the older I get, and the more I sit with the red-clay reality of the Gospels, the more I see that those fences were of my own making. I began to hear, with a new and startling clarity, what He meant by the “Kingdom of God.” It was never some distant, ethereal “elsewhere” tucked behind the stars. It was right here, in the smell of the damp earth before dawn and the weight of a gun on the shoulder.

I realized then that we aren’t just given talents; we are given dominion.

We are handed a piece of this earth—a “dominion space”—and told to tend it.

For me, that space is the untamed intersection where the hunt meets the written Word, and where the flickering light of a film screen reaches into the restless soul of a man.

Every book I have ever labored over, every film I have cut, and every dream I still carry in my pocket is stitched together by a single, shimmering thread: the belief that the Kingdom is not coming someday, but is breaking through right now, exactly where we stand.