The Story behind GG: the Series

Where the Bible finally makes sense—and even makes you laugh. 

Have you ever tried reading the Bible and feel like it’s speaking a different language? I did. For years. Then one day—years after our jail ministry work at the 33rd Street Jail in Orlando had shut down during COVID—I actually thanked God. Literally thanked Him—that I never had to write another book again.

I had written three books by then. I called them my bad boy books—stories from my childhood growing up in the Bronx, written for the inmates we were ministering to. I related to them. I understood their struggles. But writing those books was hard work. Stressful. I was burned out. And I figured I’d close that chapter for good.

So I prayed, “Lord, thank you that I never have to write again.” And it was like heaven chuckled. No thunder. No lightning. Just this quiet, unmistakable “Ha!”Then came the whisper: Never write again? John… you’re going to be writing for the rest of your life.” I blinked. “Wait… what?” Then came the assignment: Rewrite the entire Bible in your voice. Your tone. Your attitude. From Genesis to Revelation. At first, I thought it was a joke. Me? Rewrite the whole Bible? 

But the more I sat with it, the clearer it became: I wasn’t supposed to explain the Bible like a scholar. I was supposed to walk people through it like a guy from the Bronx who met Jesus and couldn’t keep quiet about it. So I surrendered. I asked, “Okay, Lord… but what do I call it? Please don’t say Genesis to Revelation—that sounds like a dusty bookshelf.” Then it hit me: I changed it to Genesis to Glory. Then I tightened it to: GG.

And that’s how GG: The Series was born. From that moment on, I knew exactly my mission. I started writing feverishly. One book turned into two… then more… and I haven’t stopped since. The passion didn’t slow down. It keeps growing. Most of it is written in Disney cafeterias. My wife Marie and I run a transportation company in Orlando—MH Transportation. 

In between drop-offs and pickups to Disney resorts, Port Canaveral cruise terminals, and airport runs, I sit down in food courts, open my laptop, and start typing. People are eating Mickey waffles and I’m over in the corner writing about Elijah calling fire from heaven. It’s not a glamorous writing desk—but it’s mine. And it’s where GG was born—and where it keeps growing.

Now I’m in full-blown writing mode, with no end in sight. But before all that came about—the moment that changed everything was a cat and dog fight between my wife Marie and me, which quickly erupted into an ugly all-out war!

 

 Two kids from the Bronx – before we knew what real fights were all about… and before God showed us what real love looks like.

I was newly married—Irish from the Bronx, married to an Italian from the Bronx. We came from two completely different worlds. So maybe the argument started when I called her family recipe “sauce” instead of “gravy.” Or maybe I asked for a cold beer when she was pouring a nice glass of wine. Or maybe it was the fact that I rooted for the Mets—and she was a Yankee fan growing up.

Honestly, I don’t even remember what the fight was about. But I remember the volume. I remember the tension. And I definitely remember what happened next. I snapped. At the time, I had two acoustic guitars—nice ones. I was learning to play, and they meant something to me. But in a fit of rage, I grabbed one and smashed it against the wall. Then the second one. Gone. Shattered. Just like the peace in our home. And then I did what cowards do. I ran. I stormed out the door, got on the subway, and headed into Manhattan for work—angry, ashamed, and broken.

That’s when something unexpected happened. I found an empty seat and sat down next to a woman who was quietly reading a Bible. I knew what she was. A Jesus freak. That’s what we called them in the ’70s. People thought they were part of some weird cult—always quoting Scripture, always smiling. I figured I’d just sit quietly and ride this thing out.

She looked over at me and asked,  “Do you know Jesus?”  I said, “yeah.” But the truth? I didn’t. Not even close.  She started sharing Scripture, and my head started spinning. The verses she quoted—I had always thought those were just religious clichés my friends made up. Turns out Jesus actually said them.

That train ride was about 45 minutes long. By the end of it, I wasn’t faking anymore. I bowed my head, prayed for Jesus to come into my life, and let me tell you—He did. I got off that train knowing one thing for sure: Jesus was real. (And funny enough, decades later they even made a movie about that whole “Jesus freak” movement. It’s called Jesus Revolution. Turns out it wasn’t a cult—it was a revival.) I stood there on the platform, heart racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. And I looked up. “God,” I whispered, “what do I do now?”

And just as clearly as I’d ever heard anything in my life, I heard: “Go to the payphone… and apologize to your wife.” That payphone looked like the last place on earth I wanted to be. I was nervous. I was scared. But somehow, I knew obedience had to start there. That’s why my hands were shaking when I reached for my pocket. I dropped in a quarter and made the call.

Marie answered—but her voice sounded different. Softer. I had to ask, “Is this Marie?” “Yes… yes, it’s me.” Still trembling, I said, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” I braced for it—expected a mouthful, a well-earned scolding. But something had shifted. A peace came over her. And then she said something I’ll never forget: “Don’t worry, honey. When you come home, we’ll go downtown and buy you a couple of new guitars to replace the ones you broke.” I stood at that payphone stunned.

That was grace. From there, I walked four city blocks to my Post Office on the Eastside of Manhattan—Lenox Hill Station, where I worked as a mailman. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next. But I knew who I needed to tell. Joe. He was the guy I used to tease. The guy who was always talking about Jesus. A “Bible thumper,” we called him. I found him on his route, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Joe, meet me in the bathroom.” He gave me a look like I had just confessed to a felony. “Meet you where?” “In the bathroom. Now.”

He followed me in. I checked both stalls—no witnesses. And then I looked at him and said, “Joe… I’m in.” He blinked. “You’re in what, John?” “I’m in the club.” “What club?”“You know… whatever club you’re in with this Jesus guy—I’m in.” Joe’s face lit up like Times Square. “Wooo hooo! John, Jesus can use a guy like you in His army!” I said, “Army? What are you talking about?” “Jesus has an army. And you’re in it now.” Then I told him the whole subway story. Right there in a dingy postal bathroom that smelled like bleach and mailbags, we celebrated like heaven had just opened a P.O. box in Manhattan.

I walked out like I’d been drafted into something eternal. Chest out. Big smile. And that little Bible the woman gave me? I was reading it on my breaks, in the break room, on my route—everywhere. I must’ve evangelized more that week than I had my entire life—without knowing a single thing except that Jesus had changed me. And for the next three years, I studied that little New Testament every day. I didn’t understand it all, but it fed my soul. God was preparing me.

And then came the moment that shook everything. My son Michael was born. I was in the delivery room when he came into the world. And let me tell you—he didn’t cry. He didn’t move. He just… came out blue. The umbilical cord was wrapped tightly around his neck, cutting off his oxygen. From the second I saw him, I believed he was dead. Alarms went off. Nurses shouting. Doctors rushing. Machines blaring. They began working on him—putting him on a respirator and giving him oxygen. My heart sank. They rushed me out of the room.

Outside, my family was waiting. Beaming. “Is it a boy or a girl?” And I just stood there. “I… I don’t know.” I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. I was still trying to process what I’d just witnessed. Eventually, I shared what little I knew, but I was shattered. My wife was in one room, my son in another—barely hanging on to life. And my faith was being stretched.

A few days later, as Michael was still struggling for life, I was driving down Castle Hill Avenue to pick up my mother-in-law so we could go visit Michael and Marie in the hospital. Marie hadn’t left his side. She was still there, watching over him every moment. And me? I was behind the wheel, and I lost it. I started screaming at God. “WHY, GOD?! I’ve been following You! I gave You my life! I’ve been reading that little Bible every day for three years now—and THIS is how You repay me? What kind of Father does this? You gave me hope and then yanked it away!” I was pounding the steering wheel. I trusted You! I told people about You! I’ve prayed, I’ve shared, I’ve believed… and now my son might DIE?!

I was yelling out loud in the car—tears streaming, heart pounding—accusing God, doubting Him, daring Him to explain Himself. For five solid minutes, I unloaded everything I had. All the fear. All the frustration. All the pain. And then… silence. No thunder. No booming voice. But deep in my spirit, one line came gently through the noise: “Trust Me.” Just that. No explanation. No apology. Just a command. I didn’t know what else to do. I was still trembling, still angry, but I raised my hands from the steering wheel and said, “Alright… I’ll trust You. Whatever You decide—I’m in.”

As my mother-in-law was coming down the ramp, I wiped my face, put the car in park, and tried to steady myself. She got in and said, “Did you hear the good news?” “What good news?” Now remember—this was the early 1980s. No cell phones. No texts. No updates. I hadn’t heard a thing. She said, “Michael’s off the respirator. Off the oxygen. He’s going to live.” I froze. Then I looked up toward heaven. Then back down at the dashboard. Then back up. Then back down. And in my heart, I asked, “Lord… was that a miracle… or just a coincidence?”

I made a U-turn right there on Castle Hill Avenue. And as I headed back up the street, there was no doubt in my soul. That wasn’t a coincidence. That was a miracle.

Today, Michael lives with cerebral palsy—but don’t feel sorry for him. He’s thriving. He has a beautiful wife, a son (our grandson Emmett), a home, and a Bible series of his own called Nobody Left Out. Just Google Michael Murray books—you’ll find him. He’s my son, my miracle, and my editor-in-chief. Without him, GG: The Series wouldn’t exist.

Marie and I are also blessed with two amazing daughters—Darling and Faith. Our family isn’t perfect, but it’s living proof that God still writes the best stories. And that’s what GG is all about. It’s not just about reading the Bible. It’s about experiencing it—laughing through it, wrestling with it, crying over it, and finding yourself inside it.

Every page is packed with heart, humor, and holy fire—and it was written for people like you. So take a look around. Start with the Old Testament. Peek at what’s coming in the New. Check out the bundles, the blog, or the merch. This isn’t just a website—it’s a revival waiting to happen.

Because from the Bronx to the Bible… From broken guitars to a God who speaks… This is Genesis to Glory. And you’re officially part of the journey.

 If you’ve ever seen a beautiful tapestry, you know the front is stunning—but the back is all tangled threads. The truth is, most of us are living on the back side. But God sees the whole thing. And maybe—just maybe—this is how He starts showing us the front of the beauty He's been weaving all along.

Today Living Our Best Life