A map, written in code and hidden in the gospel of Matthew, reveals a truth so explosive it could rock the foundations of Christianity―or lead to its rebirth.
A cleric appears out of the rain-spattered darkness, bearing a mysterious message: A long-lost map with the power to transform men is on the verge of being discovered. Thrown headlong into a global chase, author David Murrow must race to find the map before it falls into the wrong hands and disappears forever.
The Map, which begins as an action thriller and then transitions into a modern-day parable, reveals the path every great man – including Christ himself – has walked.
In this dynamic follow-up to the best-selling Why Men Hate Going to Church, Murrow cleverly translates the masculine spiritual life into an actual, ink-on-paper map. Then he shows men where to find the map in the New Testament and how to walk its ancient paths today.
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David Murrow is an award-winning television producer and writer based in Alaska, most recently working for Sarah Palin. A best-selling author, he is also director of Church for Men, an organization that helps churches connect with men and boys. David and his wife, Gina, have three children.
Introduction...............................................xi1. Out of the Black........................................32. Disarray................................................133. The Letter..............................................194. Greek to Me.............................................315. Lessons.................................................416. Slumber Party...........................................537. The Fool................................................618. Tempest.................................................679. Revelation..............................................7710. The Awakening..........................................9311. Discovering the Map....................................10312. The Way of All Great Men...............................11313. The Journey of Submission..............................12314. The Journey of Strength................................13915. The Journey of Sacrifice...............................15716. Where Men Get Lost on the Mountain.....................16917. The Map: A Thousand and One Uses.......................18118. Manliness versus Godliness.............................19319. The Three Journeys at Church...........................20720. Finding Gerasimos......................................219Epilogue: The Call.........................................227Notes......................................................237About the Author...........................................241
My eyes snapped open, but I saw nothing. I blinked-and paid the price. My eyelids felt as though they were lined with sandpaper. I tried to sit up, but pain shot through my legs. Slowly I rolled onto my back, trying to remember where I was. Through a slit in the roof, I saw a black sky dotted with stars. I knew just two things: I was awake, and I was alive.
I pressed the glow button on my watch: 4:32 a.m. What had wakened me? The rooster. His crowing was like a poorly timed snooze alarm, with just enough of an interval between cock-a-doodle-doos to lull me back to sleep and then jerk me back to consciousness.
Why is there a rooster? I heard something stirring-maybe three meters from my head. I lay very still, trying not to breathe. Something metal scraped against a stone floor. Then I heard the sound of a body shifting its weight, followed by a heavy exhale. I felt as though I was in danger, but I had no idea why.
My thoughts began to clear. I was in a barn. Somewhere in Greece. This was not an American-style barn with a steep, pitched roof and a spacious hayloft. My shelter was a crude, single-story, stone-walled structure that had been built around the time young George Washington was chopping down cherry trees.
I soon realized that the sounds that had frightened me came not from an assassin but from a draft horse, dragging an iron shoe across worn pavement. Moments later my nose was assaulted by the smell of freshly dropped manure. Yes, I'm definitely in a barn, I thought.
I'm not in the habit of sleeping with livestock, but stranded travelers take whatever accommodations they can get. It was coming back to me: I had no transportation, no cell phone, and I couldn't speak a word of Greek. I was hiding from men who were trying to either help me or kill me-I wasn't sure.
I shared my crude accommodations with the horse, a cow, a donkey, and my travel companion-an Anglican priest from Wales who went by the name Benson. The vicar had been snoring proficiently through the night, but at the moment he was silent. If the cock had awakened him, he showed no sign of it. The two of us shared our bed of straw with a number of scurrying creatures, probably mice or rats. Their constant motion had kept me on edge all night.
The barn was located in the tiny Greek monastic state of Mount Athos. The priest and I had journeyed to this backwater in search of a treasure map.
Now, stop laughing. This was no Pirates of the Caribbean treasure map. This particular map led to something even more valuable than gold. I wasn't even sure the map existed. But if the rumor was true, we were on the verge of a discovery so explosive it had the potential to shake the foundations of Christianity-or lead to its rebirth.
I rose stiffly and stumbled out of the barn with two goals: (1) tap a kidney and (2) kill the rooster. As I stood in the barnyard working on my first goal, my eyes scanned the dark countryside. I took a moment to assess my current situation: eight thousand miles from home, searching for a map that may or may not exist-seeking information from a Greek Orthodox monk who may or may not know anything-hiding from men who may or may not be trying to kill me. My life was a bubbling cauldron of uncertainty.
I'm no Indiana Jones. I'm a father of three, whose idea of adventure is booking a hotel on Priceline.com. I was drawn into this expedition because the map supposedly had something to do with Jesus Christ and the path to manhood-topics that I've studied extensively and written on. My goal was to find the map and share it with the world. And what the heck-if the discovery led to me writing an international bestseller, I was sure the Lord wouldn't mind.
By now the rooster had gone silent, so I decided to spare him. Back inside, the barn seemed darker, and the smells were even more pungent. To my left, the priest was snoring again, but it was so dark I couldn't make out his form. One of the animals was stirring in its stall-or was it something else? I held very still, fighting the eerie feeling that someone was watching me. Then a thought occurred: Do roosters suddenly go silent once their morning recital begins?
Meanwhile, Father Nigel Benson began snuffling again. I felt safer with him nearby, even though he was about as threatening as the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
My mind wandered back to the first time I met Benson. We were in Wales. It was about five months ago, on February 1.
* * *
I stepped out of the warm church building into a raw Welsh night. An unkind wind blew off the Atlantic. Rain spattered onto the parking lot under an ebony sky that had surrendered its last ray of light hours ago.
Though the night was chilly, my heart was warmed by the love I had felt that evening, addressing a crowd of about 120 at St. Mary's Parish in Cardiff, Wales. They'd come to hear a lecture titled "Why Men Hate Going to Church," based on a book I'd written a few years before. The lack of men in U.S. churches is a bother, but in the U.K. it's a crippling epidemic. I'd found an enthusiastic group eager for my message. I was just walking out to my rental car when I heard a voice from behind.
"Mr. Murrow?" the voice said.
I turned quickly. "Yes, who's there?"
"I was inside, listening to your address. Very interesting."
"You startled me," I said.
"I apologize. I just had to speak to you. Alone."
A chill ran up my back. It had nothing to do with the breeze. "What is this about?" I asked defensively.
"Can you meet me tomorrow? I have some very important information that I must share with you."
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Apologies. My name is Benson-Nigel Benson-and I am a priest living at the vicarage at Churchstoke, about seventy miles north of here. Like many ministers, I am fascinated by your topic....
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