Breaking Into Peace

Christmas means many things to many people.
For many, it is family, friends, and festivities, taking time to visit loved ones, and gathering to enjoy food, drink, and celebration.

For some, it is a painful reminder of loss. Whether death, divorce, separation, or distance, something that once was no longer is.

For those of different faiths or no faith, it might be a reminder of the oppressive, dominating aspects of Christianity.

For many Christians, it is an affirmation that YHWH came in the flesh to dwell among human beings.
For me, it is all of these.

I love to celebrate this season. From the day after Thanksgiving through Christmas Day, holiday music plays in my home, my car, and my office. I love dressing up for holiday parties and embracing all the season has to offer. It is such a joy to slow down and spend a little extra time with those I love, friends and family alike. And, of course, I always enjoy all of the food and drink this time of year offers, a little too much.

But there is also sadness. I reflect on Christmases past. My mom died over 26 years ago and my dad has been gone for eleven. My grandparents have all been gone over three decades and there is a long list of other family members and close friends who are no longer living. Childhood Christmas mornings seem so far in the past, the innocence of those days a distant memory.

There is the pain of divorce and the evolution of my relationship with my now adult son. Those Christmas mornings where that young boy joyfully opened presents under the tree is a fond but distant memory. The magic of those moments still brings a smile to my face, but their absence serves as a reminder of the marching forward of time.

While I am Christian, I recognize the ways my faith tradition has often used power to oppress others. I have seen Muslims, Hindus, Jews, and others belittled or sidelined in an effort to “save” Christmas. The very phrase “saving Christmas” makes me chuckle and grimace at the same time.

This brings me to the birth of Jesus. While December 25th is almost certainly not when Jesus was born (not the only detail we often get wrong), this is a time Christians celebrate the coming of Immanuel, God with us. But what does that really mean?

Jesus certainly valued community, but his view and experience of family is not what many Christians focus on today. His family tree includes adultery (David and Bathsheba), a murderer (David), a prostitute (Rahab), a woman who seduced her father-in-law (Tamar), a foreigner (Ruth), liars and deceivers (Abraham, Issac, and Jacob), and one who worshiped many gods (Solomon). His lineage certainly is messy.

And while he honored his parents—as any good Jewish male would—he also embraced a nontraditional view of family at times (Luke 14:26, Matthew 12:48-50) and welcomed those who didn’t fit neatly into the “model Christian family” box. He protected a woman caught in adultery (John 8:2-11). He forgave a “sinful woman” (Luke 7:36-50). He hints at inviting those of other faiths (depending on how you interpret and understand John 10:16). He offers healing and salvation to “non-believers” (Luke 7:1-10, Luke 23:39-43).

The birth of Jesus is such a complex yet simple event. The divine became finite in the form of a child. The force that holds the universe together put on flesh and became the embodiment of divine love.

YHWH has always been present in creation, long before that humble birth 2,000 years ago. The first incarnation of the divine is revealed in the light and breath of creation (Genesis 1:3; 2:7). And as the introduction to the Gospel of John so beautifully reminds us, Jesus’ birth is not the first and only incarnation, but a continuation of what started “in the beginning.” The Logos became flesh so we could better witness and understand what it means to be fully human.

Even a cursory look at Jesus’ life as documented in the Gospels reveals the divine’s dream. The marginalized are embraced (Matthew 8:1-4). The lost are found (Luke 19:1-10). The outsiders are welcomed in (John 4:7-26). The hungry are fed, the thirsty are given drink, the strangers are welcomed, the naked are clothed, and the imprisoned are visited (Matthew 25:35-36).

Yes, Christmas is a time for family, celebration, and cheer. But it is also a time to embrace sorrow, battle injustice, and welcome all. Jesus didn’t come to offer an escape plan out of this broken and imperfect world; he came to show us how to make this world more like the world YHWH imagines. Christmas is not primarily about how we get to heaven, but how we get heaven to earth. It’s so obviously displayed in the birth of Jesus that sometimes we miss it.

Several years ago I was sitting with my spiritual director during a time of significant disorder and disruption in my life. She could clearly see I was experiencing a lot of internal dialogue, much of it negative and unhelpful.

While she usually asked questions far more often than she made statements, in this moment, she paused, looked me in the eye, and shared a quote from Richard Rohr.

“Sit in the silence until it silences you.”

Like a toddler in the candy aisle at the grocery store, my inner voice shouted, “No! I don’t want to!” But she sat there, waiting for my inner child to stop the tantrum. After a minute or two, there was more stillness and the opportunity to actually listen to her. That day at the retreat center, I added this phrase to my daily affirmations, a list of things I read every morning. Since then, those words have awaited me every morning. “Sit in the silence until it silences you.”

It would be disingenuous to say that from that moment on I was suddenly able to sit in the silence until it silenced me. Years later, I still often struggle with this practice. But it has gotten easier.

The hardest part of sitting in the silence for me is being patient and resisting the urge to “make noise.” As an Enneagram Seven, in stressful times I often become perfectionistic and self-critical, the voices drowning out so much else around me. My soul aches for something to overpower the noise of the boisterous internal critic and my default is to seek out something else, something more positive, to drown out the critic. This can be a vicious and exhausting cycle.

In those moments where I am able sit long enough, those voices reach the point of exhaustion and begin to quiet. Eventually, they lower to a whisper and then stop speaking. This process is not easy and often unpleasant, but the resulting peace is worth its weight in gold.

When I share this idea of sitting in the silence with others, I often see in their eyes a look similar to what Sister Wanda probably saw in mine. I can’t read minds or know what others are thinking, but the look seems to reflect what I felt: fear, apprehension, and resistance.

What I want to tell them—but know they need to learn by doing, not hearing it from me—is that it is beautiful on the other side of the noise.

The journey to that place of peace is not easy, linear, or immediate. I wasn’t able to complete the journey the first time I tried. Or the second. Or the third. Sometimes I still get stuck in the noise.

Sitting in the silence is a practice, an ongoing effort to build mental and emotional muscle. It has taken me a decade to get to this point and the progress has been so gradual that it took years to finally see how far I had come.

I share this not to applaud my own efforts, but to encourage others to continue theirs. Regardless of where one finds themselves on the journey to peace, remember that true, deep change is one small step at a time and the results are usually not immediate. In a world of instant gratification, real transformation is never instant; it is countless movements forward intermingled with many steps back.

In 1 Kings 19 in the Hebrew Bible, the prophet Elijah speaks with YHWH on a mountain. In this divine encounter, Elijah does not meet YHWH in the wind, an earthquake, or a fire. Rather, Elijah meets YHWH in “a sound of sheer silence.”

Like Elijah, we might think more noise will bring peace. We might try scrolling through social media, busying ourselves with activity, bingeing our favorite show, or a myriad of other “noises.” None of these are inherently bad, but we must be careful not to use them to drown out what we don’t want to hear.

The more I have experienced true silence, the more clearly I have heard the voices speaking wholeness and healing. Those voices often speak quietly; making space to hear them has brought me renewal that no noise can drown out.

Sitting on my back porch this morning, I watched the sun rising behind the trees, birds soaring through the sky, and clouds flowing high above. As I looked beyond the clouds to the clear blue sky, I remembered that less than an hundred miles above me, shorter than the distance between here and Columbus, our atmosphere ceases to exist.

If I go a little further, I find our lone moon. From that vantage point, we are a floating ball of blue, brown, green, and white. I am but an invisible dot on that ball.

The Voyager I spacecraft, which left earth nearly 50 years ago, is over 15 billion miles away. Back in 1990, when it was a mere 3.7 billion miles away, it look its last picture of our planet. We were but a pale blue dot in that image.

From a solar system across the Milky Way, our entire solar system would appear as a small dot, one of billions of stars in our galaxy.

Talk about feeling small.

We are a dot on a dot in a dot…and I could keep going.

So why do some us think we are so much more valuable and important than others? In a universe where we seem so inconsequential, what brings someone to think they are better than another human being?

I think there are endless answers to that question, but I ask it seeking reflection not a response.

Despite how tiny we are relative to the universe, we are all valuable. Each human life may be a dot, but together those dots have the capacity to create something beautiful. We are a mosaic of human beings, each with their own culture, language, religion, perspective, abilities, and various other contributions to our big, beautiful world.

When we attempt to minimize, degrade, or otherwise eliminate one dot, it harms us all. We rob ourselves of the richness that is all of humanity and the entire ecosystem that is planet Earth. This includes every dot represented by the animals, plants, and other aspects of creation all around us. The leaves on the tree. That bird that flew overhead today. The water droplets in the clouds. They all help create this beautiful work of art we live in.

I am convinced that until we see ourselves as one dot among countless dots, we will fight and claw to prove our worth. We will take from others to increase our possessions. We will dominate others to build our power. We will degrade others to enhance our pride.

Realizing how small I am allows me to more fully appreciate how important everyone and everything else around me is. I might be a dot, but when I work to enrich the experiences of the dots around me, they will glow more brightly and shine their light back at me. If we could learn to do this, we could glow brighter than any star in the universe and shine light in a way that could eliminate the darkness we see around us.

If you grew up in the 1980s, you probably know who Vanilla Ice. One of his most well known and oft-quoted lyrics comes from the song “Ice Ice Baby.”

“Stop, collaborate and listen.”

These lyrics are bouncing around in my head this morning while reflecting on an encounter with my partner yesterday while finalizing some travel plans and I was using a few unfamiliar websites and apps.

When I am trying to learn something, I often “lock-in” and try to figure it out. This tendency come from a combination of wanting to learn, trying to figure things out, and a need to achieve mastery at something.

In and of itself, those are not bad motives, but when you mix them with a deep-seated need to display your expertise from a childhood where performance equaled worth, it’s a recipe for me not showing up as my best self. Last night was no exception to that outcome.

What I should have done is listen to Vanilla Ice and stopped, collaborated and listened. I should have been appreciative, not defensive. I should have assumed positive intent and not been so hell-bent on figuring it out on my own. Sometimes I frustrate myself as much as I do those around me.

There is a quote by Viktor Frankl hanging on a wall in my house and sitting on a shelf in my office. (Yes, I actually bought two of the same piece of wall art.) It says, “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and freedom.”

I don’t keep that quote clearly visible at home and work because I have mastered it; quite the opposite. I constantly need the reminder to widen the space between stimulus and my response. Yesterday was but one more salient reminder there is still much work for me to do.

We all have those things that set us off. Maybe yours isn’t a need to prove you can do it yourself. Maybe yours isn’t a deep-seated need to justify your worth. One of the biggest tasks of everyone’s self-work is to discover what those things are.

But that discovery is not the end goal; it is a gateway to the next level. That next level, my friends, is where the real work starts. It’s one thing to know what triggers you. It’s a whole other thing to engage in the work of widening that space between stimulus and response.

It’s pretty clear to me every day we all have work before us. I see it in our politics. I see it in the workplace. I see it in my community.

I wonder how much better we could make the world around us if we all strengthen our power to choose our response instead of letting our response choose itself. Maybe we would lash out less, strike back less, and, in the process, stop hurting other people so much. That sure sounds like growth and freedom to me.

The next time something triggers an emotional response, think about broadening the space Frankl talks about and listen to Vanilla Ice. Stop. Collaborate. Listen. Take a step towards developing the power to choose a response which brings peace and connection rather than one fueling discord and separation.

Does anyone else struggle with vacillating between feeling too important and not important at all, or is it just me?

I was thinking about that this morning while sitting on the back porch of my partner’s parents’ house, listening to the river just beyond the line of trees in their backyard. As the birds chirp, the sun begins to rise, and the dew glistens on the grass, the river flows by, adding constant background music to the birds’ beautiful melodies.

I want to be the bird, singing for others to hear. I want to be heard. At times, that need to be heard leads to me believing my voice is more important than others, more worthy of being heard.

From my years of therapy and self-work, I have learned this is a coping mechanism developed in a childhood where I felt emotionally neglected at home, often left to take care of own emotional needs. In order to feel important, I would create an internal world where my importance became a bit consuming, causing me to have an inflated ego. That still happens more often than I care to admit.

But that same emotional wound can cause me to quickly switch directions and swing to the other end of the spectrum, leading me to think I am not important at all. Like that young boy left to nurture himself, I feel like no one in the world sees me, feeling invisible and believing everyone is better than me. This often feeds my insecurities and creates imposter syndrome.

I hope most people don’t struggle with this like me, but imagine some do.

This brings me back to the river.

I am like a drop of water in the river, both vitally important and seemingly insignificant at the same time. Living in this tension is where life is best lived, being part of something always in motion and much larger than me.

I believe everything in the world is connected through the divine, an ever moving force and connection, love in action. When I slow down long enough to listen, I hear the voice of that presence moving in me and around me, flowing like a river.

As a drop of water in the river of creation, I do matter. My momentary encounter with a rock in the stream may not noticeably change that rock, but when countless other drops come before and after me, we collectively change that rock in noticeable ways. This makes us both insignificant and vital at the same time.

If there was no water or just my drop, nothing would change, but as part of a larger movement, I can make a difference.

I am one person out of eight billion in the world and a speck on the timeline of history. However, in this time and place my life occupies, I matter.

So I will keep flowing down the river of history, knowing at some point my drop will evaporate. In the meantime, I want to touch every life I encounter and do my small part to leave love’s imprint on every person I meet. If I do that, my insignificance becomes significant and makes the world a little better. If we all do this together, we will change the world in ways we never thought possible.

Most memories from my teenage years are foggy at best, clouded by trauma and scattered by ADHD. But there is a memory that is fairly clear.

It was a warm summer day in the high school band room and practice had just finished. I am sitting with my friends chatting and hear my dad’s voice from the door. “Come on, Mooso.”

To be clear—and fair to my father—it wasn’t said with malice or a tone of derision. To be honest, at the time I didn’t even realize the wound it was causing.

I don’t remember exactly when my weight became a struggle, but it was around the time I both hit puberty and experience sexual childhood abuse, an unfortunate intersection of life-altering experiences. Before that, my parents could barely find pants that would stay on because I was so skinny.

Adolescence came at me hard, and seemingly with a vengeance. And my dad unknowingly piled on, the high school band room experience serving as Exhibit A.

As Enneagram Type 7, I move to Type 1 in stress. For those who aren’t familiar with the Enneagram, this means that in stressful moments my inner critic starts screaming like a parent at their child’s sporting event.

Adolescence is stressful. It’s even more stressful when you feel all alone in a world consumed with belonging and fitting it. When everyone seemed to have a boyfriend or girlfriend—or at least someone interested in them—I was the chubby kid that all the girls said was “nice” and wrote similar messages in my yearbook at the end of each school year.

Looking back, I realize my struggles were far more than my weight; it was a symptom of deeper, underlying wounds. But it added weight (no pun intended) to my inner critic’s voice, a voice that in some ways continues to whisper in my ear.

Even now, in my mid-50’s, I occasionally hear my dad’s voice echoing from three decades ago. He has been gone for over ten years, but he’s still here. The voices of the past can be difficult to silence.

Even now, I sometimes look in the mirror and feel the anxiety of a high school boy wanting to be wanted, but feeling undesirable. The scars still speak, even though they have healed.

In his book, The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma, Bessel van der Kolk writes, “Traumatized people chronically feel unsafe inside their bodies: The past is alive in the form of gnawing interior discomfort. Their bodies are constantly bombarded by visceral warning signs, and, in an attempt to control these processes, they often become expert at ignoring their gut feelings and in numbing awareness of what is played out inside. They learn to hide from their selves.”

Overcoming that ignoring and hiding has been the work of the last decade of my life. It has been one of the hardest things I have ever done. And the work is not done.

I share all of this not to illicit pity, but to offer hope.

I know there are people all around me whose experiences, while different, are similar. I see it in the ways they speak and act. As a survivor of trauma, I recognize its often subtle signals. Sometimes I feel like the boy in the Sixth Sense, with one difference, I see hurt people, not dead ones.

Our world is hurting. I see it on my street, on our campus, and across the world. There are hurting people everywhere.

We don’t need more trauma. We don’t more wars, more violent words, more aggression, or more hatred. We need healing.

Richard Rohr says, “If we do not transform our pain, we will most assuredly transmit it—usually to those closest to us: our family, our neighbors, our co-workers, and, invariably, the most vulnerable, our children.” What we are witnessing all around us is the transmission of pain on a global scale.

But global healing starts with individual healing, one person at a time. And while the healing of one person may not sound like much, imagine a wave of healing flowing through billions of people. Imagine a viral spread of healing sweeping across our globe.

I believe every person has at least one “mooso” story, a time when words or actions created a wound. Most of us likely have many more. It is incumbent on us to decide what to do with that pain. Will we transmit it, often causing more pain in the process? Or will we choose to do the harder but better work of transforming, both as individuals and a society?

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

These well-known words which appear early in the Declaration of Independence have never been fully embodied by our nation, but countless battles – legal, political, philosophical, and violent – have been waged to make progress in the living out of this ideal.

At the birth of our nation, “men” meant just that. More specifically, men who were white and owned property. In the time of our Founders, this was progress, but it wasn’t the final destination.

There is a reason why the authors of the Constitution built in the ability to amend it. They knew the world would change, people would learn, and their young nation’s guiding document would need to be able to change with it.

Through interpretation and understanding of the original words of the Constitution and Amendments, including the 13th and 14th, we have come to understand “all men” to be more inclusive of all human beings. Well, kind of.

Some seem to want to return to earlier days, to make America great again so to speak.

But is that what our Founders truly intended, to return to times when we were less wise, less informed, and less expansive? One of the reasons they formed this nation nearly 250 years ago was to broaden freedoms, reduce restrictions, and allow people to pursue those unalienable rights of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

I would argue they intended for us to spread freedom, not hoard it. When we begin to believe freedom is for us, we poison the well of freedom.

Think of freedom as water. When we collect it, store it, and gather it for ourselves, it becomes stagnant and others will be deprived of an abundant life. But when we let it flow, sharing it freely, there is life, abundance, energy, and growth.

Freedom is life-giving. Freedom is love in action.

As a follower of Jesus, both the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament inform my worldview as much as the Constitution. Many current leaders restricting freedom claim to be followers of Jesus as well. Their policies and attitudes seem to contradict what Paul wrote to the church in Galatia.

For you were called to freedom, brothers and sisters, only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence, but through love become enslaved to one another. For the whole law is summed up in a single commandment, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself If, however, you bite and devour one another, take care that you are not consumed by one another.

Whether talking about the Apostle Paul or Thomas Jefferson, both seem to have the same idea: freedom is not for self-indulgence, but to care one another and lift each other up. Christianity and the United States have both struggled to fully live up to this ideal, but this doesn’t mean we should cease our pursuit of it.

This struggle expands beyond our borders.

Let me ask a question: What makes a citizen of America any better than the citizen of any other country in the world. Spoiler alert. Nothing.

There’s nothing wrong with taking care of our own citizens, that is part of our obligation. But compassion and love should not and do not require a passport or any other kind of identification.

When talking about those who not citizens within our own border, some will say, “We are a nation of laws.” I agree. But laws are meant to protect, not punish. Yes, there are consequences, but laws should not be a weapon to calm discomfort or serve self-indulgence.

Immigration, foreign policy, and being a global citizen are complex matters, but some seem to oversimplify them to create fear, exercise power, and serve self-indulgence. Whether a lack of understanding and wisdom, selfish intent, or a combination of the two, this not only misses the mark, it’s the antithesis of what it means to be a “Christian Nation.” (For the record, I don’t subscribe to this idea, but let’s go with it for a minute.)

Let’s turn way back to Genesis 12. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the early chapters of the Hebrew Bible (aka the Old Testament), right before Genesis 12, the humans had said, “Come, let us build ourselves a city and a tower with its top in the heavens, and let us make a name for ourselves; otherwise we shall be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.”

Sounds like they wanted to make themselves great and put themselves first. That sounds vaguely familiar for some reason. But a few verses later, the LORD confused the language of all the earth, and from there the LORD scattered them abroad over the face of all the earth.

To use the current vernacular, WHYH decided to control-alt-delete the whole human experience and experiment. In his search for someone to kickoff this revolution, he selected Abram (who would later be called Abraham). Here is his declaration to Abram to build this new nation:

Now the Lord said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse, and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” (Genesis 12:1-3)

So often, people want to focus on the “make of you a great nation,” “bless you,” and “make your name great.” (There’s that “great” word again.) But don’t miss what is at the heart of this calling: “so that you will be a blessing.”

Freedom is not our privilege; it is our gift. It is not something to hoard, but to share. Our freedom is not a call to build walls and fences for protection and own benefit. Freedom is something we share to bless others. Freedom gives us license to do much, but it does not give us license to hate, control, marginalize, criminalize, and dehumanize others.

What do we have freedom to do? We have…

Freedom to love our neighbors.

Freedom to speak our opinions.

Freedom to be our whole selves.

Freedom to live without fear of retribution.

Freedom to enjoy the blessings of life.

Freedom to share all of these things with those around us so freedom will truly ring in the lives of all people in our nation and around the world.

This week I have been reminded several times about the importance of taking care of myself, physically, mentally, and emotionally.

On Sunday, we returned from a long weekend away. While the few days we spent in western Michigan were packed with activities, we spent time in nature, listening to live music, and making new friends, all things that fill my heart.

Monday was an emotional day where anxiety and sadness seemed ever present. Connection time with my partner that evening helped me center. 

Tuesday evening was spent with friends over dinner and at a baseball game. Conversation, fresh air, and good food are good for my soul.

On Wednesday, I toured some of the recreational facilities on campus. This reminded me how important physical activity and exercise are for my body and overall wellbeing. When I neglect taking time for this, I feel it.

Thursday was a lunch meeting for our Wellness Champions team at work. Connecting with positive people committed to wellness was a much needed boost.

Friday morning I stepped on the scale and had a reality check. While I have enjoyed plenty of delicious food and drinks this summer, maybe it’s been a little too much. So at a lunch meeting with a work colleague, I ordered salad. That afternoon, I was finally approved for a new psoriasis medication after months of frustration and effort.

This morning when meditating with my partner, today’s meditation focused on being grateful for your body. As I write this, we are preparing to “Bike with the Mayor” here in Euclid.

Reflecting back on the past week, there were ups and downs, smiles and frowns. I experienced success and joy as well as disappointment and discouragement. Whether pleasant or unpleasant, there were countless reminders about the importance of self-care.

I tend to be an intense person. It’s probably a combination of how I was raised, ADHD, OCD tendencies, the effects of childhood trauma, underlying anxiety, a need for control, and a boundless desire for adventure. If that sounds both exhausting and exhilarating, you’re right.

That intensity requires me to pursue self-care regularly, but with a warning label. Like many people, I have voices in my head which criticize and belittle me. (Yet another reason for self-care.) It is important to remember that the best self-care is not about perfection, restriction, or shame. Rather, it should be bathed in intention, moderation, and gratitude.

Today is Trinity Sunday, the day the church focuses on and celebrates the Trinity. While the Trinity is never explicitly outlined in the Scriptures, the idea of the Trinity is woven throughout the Bible and Christian thought.

For the last two millennia, there have been countless debates, discussions, and writings about what the Trinity really means. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not here to offer a definitive answer. What I do have to offer is my experience and learning.

With today being Trinity Sunday and Father’s Day, two relational aspects of my life intersect.

When my life took a hard turn about ten years ago, I did a deep dive into the relational and spiritual aspects of my life. As I learned to embrace vulnerability, I examined what shaped me and explored what could help me heal and grow, including my experiences as a son and a father.

Coming to understand the Trinity as movement and relationship rather than a doctrine impacted me in ways I couldn’t imagine, inviting me into a relationship with YHWH beyond anything I had experienced before, even with two degrees in ministry and nearly a decade and a half in full-time ministry.

I had often been taught about having a relationship with God, but it was mostly transactional, God’s love dependent on my behaviors. If I did X, Y, and Z, then God would grant me grace.

This intersected with my childhood experience with fatherhood. While not intentional or malicious, love from my father was often distant, void of much affection, and often based on my performance, especially in school. Thanks to therapy, reflection, and self-work, I came to this realization, experienced anger and sadness, and have since moved towards compassion, coming to understand my dad was doing the best he could with what he had; for that I am grateful.

My childhood experiences with fatherhood shaped my understanding of God the Father and how I showed up as a dad for my own son, in both good ways and bad. The lack of affection I received as a child drove me to be very intentional about how I loved my own son. We would often hug and snuggle. I would play with him regularly and pray with him almost every night. While I couldn’t put words to it then, I was trying to create what I missed as a child. On the other hand, I was still struggling for authentic connection and vulnerability, something which made it difficult to build deep connections with anyone, including him.

What I have learned in the last decade impacts how I show up in relationships, including as a father. I have learned to share my mistakes and shadows rather than hide them. I have learned to be honest about my feelings, including the unpleasant ones. I have learned to accept I can be responsible for what I have done wrong and still experience love and acceptance.

Some of those lessons emerged from a more robust understanding of the Trinity. Rather than seeing it primarily as different functions or “persons” of some distant divine being, the Trinity became an invitation to a dance with YHWH, an invitation without limits, truly unconditional love. This perfect love sets me free to love more fully, even in my imperfection.

On the wall in my dining rooms hangs a print of The Trinity, an icon created by Russian painter Andrei Rublev in the early 15th century. It is based on the three angels who visited Abraham in Genesis 18, but is dripping in symbolism related to the Trinity. It hangs there as a daily reminder that YHWH is constantly inviting me to join their community of love, grace, and mercy, and for me to extend that invitation to those I meet along the way.

While the hurt I caused my son can never be undone, I hope the ways I have been transformed bring healing and restoration. I will never be the perfect father, but may I never stop learning how to be an even better one.

When he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, he went to the synagogue on the Sabbath day, as was his custom. He stood up to read,  and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was given to him. He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it was written:

 The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
    because he has anointed me
        to bring good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
    and recovery of sight to the blind,
        to set free those who are oppressed,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

In Luke 4:16-19, Jesus returns home and takes his turn reading in the synagogue. It isn’t clear whether he chose the words of they were the assigned reading for the day, but regardless, he reads from Isaiah 61. When he finished, the people who remembered Jesus as a child were amazed by him.

But not for long.

At first, his listeners must have puffed out their chests a little thinking about how they, as God’s special people, had been so blessed by YHWH, this prophet reminding them of their privilege as the chosen nation.

But then he went there…

This good news is not just for them, but for everyone. Elijah was only sent to a widow at Zarephath in Sidon. Only Naaman the Syrian was cleansed. Release to the captives, recovery of sight, freedom for the oppressed, they are for everyone. God’s favor is meant for all of humanity.

Rather than rejoice in YHWH’s expansive love, they were furious about their loss of privilege. They went from praising him to attempting to kill him. And for what? Because Jesus wanted to extend grace and mercy to people not like them, those not included in their special group.

Loss of privilege often brings about fear and anger in those who feel threatened, but not Jesus. Jesus willingly gives away privilege, time and time again, both in word and deed.

There is no retribution in Jesus’ message and ministry, except for the religious insiders who exclude the other. There is no anger in Jesus’ message and ministry, except for the ones who take advantage of the disadvantaged. Jesus’ entire ministry is about welcoming the stranger, loving the alien, and healing the marginalized.

Maybe instead of a Project 2025, we need a Project 6112. Jesus didn’t show up on the scene with a plan to imprison, blind, and oppress. His project, his ministry, was to release, recover, and free.

Yes, we are a nation of laws, but I believe laws should always be imbued with love. Laws exist to protect, not suppress. Even when we hold someone accountable, love should still be present. When laws are enforced with hatred, retribution, and retaliation, no one wins, and our world grows a little darker.

A real jubilee is not about parading our power. A real jubilee occurs when love leads, mercy flows, and grace is available for all. Those are true Christian values.