Today is my birthday. Instead of sharing a list of lessons learned or how grateful I am to be alive, I want to offer something that might ruffle a few feathers. If it does, I’d just ask for one thing: Please give me the gift of grace, maybe even a little tolerance. Try to hear this as something coming from my heart, not my head. Because I want to talk about religion. More specifically, the kind of religion that’s rooted in fear and shame. The version a lot of us were handed growing up. The one that says love is conditional, and God is basically a cosmic scorekeeper, watching and waiting for us to screw up. Immature, fear-based religion often starts with shame. It’s rooted in the belief that love is conditional and that God, or whatever higher power we grew up with, is keeping score. The message is something like: “I messed up. I broke the rules. My dad is going to kill me." That old script tells us we must earn our place and hide our humanity. And that fear? It doesn’t just keep us from God. It keeps us from ourselves. We start to believe that our mistakes define us. That we’re only lovable if we don’t screw up. If we’re unable to meet some standard of excellence, we’re unworthy. But a spirituality anchored in grace, in the Gospel of forgiveness, says something entirely different. It says: “I messed up. I need to call my dad.” That version doesn’t ignore the mistake—it just doesn’t turn the error into a reason to run and hide. It’s relational, not transactional. It’s about trust. Knowing there’s a love that isn’t going anywhere, even when we fall flat on our faces. And that shift? It changes everything. Instead of spiraling into shame, we reach out for connection. Instead of punishment, we open the door to grace. Instead of fear, we move toward love. Because we will mess up. We’ll say the wrong thing, hurt people, and make choices we wish we hadn’t. But the question isn’t “Will we fail?” It’s, “What happens next?” And if what happens next is calling our spiritual ‘dad’—our higher power, our inner knowing, our Source—not because we’re trying to avoid punishment, but because we trust there’s still love on the other end of the line… well, that’s what transforms us.

This incident happened a few months ago. It is very similar to some of the other stories I've shared, but somehow, I have lately been finding the universal relevance in these interactions with my kids. Micah dressed up as a ghost with the intention of scaring me. I chucked and pretended to be scared. He threw the costume down and was legitimately and visibly very angry. I asked him what was wrong. "I have been trying for THREE YEARS to scare you for real! I have been failing over and over again!" This tantrum genuinely concerned me. So, when he took the moment to breathe I asked him, "Why is it so important to you that you scare me, Micah?" "There you go being all wise again, Daddy! Your words and questions don't help me. I am a failure!" With that response I realized I was genuinely frightened. I started asking myself some intimidating questions: How much am I responsible for this insecurity? In what ways might I have role modeled thinking of myself as a failure? Did my son inherit something about me that I was afraid to look at? Is this something 'wisdom' can't really help or fix? For the first time in years, I was genuinely in fear. No anger. No sadness. No shame or guilt. Just genuine fear. "Micah. I want to say something. This is not me trying to be 'wise', but I want to be completely honest with you. At this moment I am really scared. What scares me the most is that you are beating yourself up for my mistakes. It scares me that you are being so hard on yourself because it reminds me of how hard I have been on myself my whole life. It really scares me that at eight years old you are being so rough on yourself. So you have succeeded in scaring me without even trying. No, it's not about being afraid of a ghost or a demon. And, Micah, let's be honest, I am not scared of things like that. You have instead tapped a primal fear in me...that I am failing as a father. Because I love you more than anything. It hurts me to see that you have inherited my habits of being a tyrant to myself."

This is for the ones who’ve always felt on the outside looking in because they see things differently than the majority. They know when something doesn’t feel quite right, and they’ve been called “too sensitive,” “too intense,” “too much.” But caring isn’t a flaw, it’s a gift. They can feel it deep in their bones that something beautiful is unfolding. And they are worthy of it. They may be too spiritual for the cynics. Too skeptical for the religious. But they are someone who sees forgiveness, peace, love, and understanding as the way. This is a place where your beliefs are respected, your questions are welcome, and your humanity is never up for debate. You’re free to believe what’s true for you. And we only have to agree on one thing; to treat each other with kindness. So let’s be clear: Intolerance, hate, or harm in any form don’t belong here. Not even a little. Unsolicited advice is not allowed. Our Creed: You are not broken. You are human. And you are not alone. That’s it. That’s the foundation we stand on. Whatever you believe, wherever you’ve been, however you’ve coped, you are welcome here.

"Daddy. I learned today that making mistakes is a good thing." I didn't hesitate, "Absolutely it is a good thing. Forgiving yourself for your mistakes is the hard thing." Micah asked, "Why?" This answer didn't come so easily. "If I had to guess, I think it is because when our ancestors made mistakes there were more life and death situations. For many adults too many mistakes means loss of a job or a relationship to someone they care about. Which is almost like life and death." Micah was playing a video game and wanted me to help him. I told him to keep trying even though the video game character "dies" over and over again. He eventually beat the level. "Perfection is the only real 'Big Boss', Micah. Most people still make every moment a life and death situation. They are very hard on themselves for making mistakes. Failure is a friend not an enemy. If you can go through life knowing that then you can help others forgive themselves for making mistakes. You can enjoy 'the game' instead of judging yourself for learning by failing over and over again. The 'game' is as real as you make it. But once the game gets addictive or you begin judging yourself for failing, that is when it is time to stop and remind yourself that the game is not real...and that you have a choice to step away." "I think I'm done playing video games, Daddy. I want to play with play dough now." #DaddyJournal

If your understanding of Christianity has come mainly through the lens of Christian nationalism, discovering how Jesus and his earliest followers lived might come as a bit of a shock. The first followers of the Way weren’t in it for power or control—they weren’t about flexing their influence over others. At its core, this movement was rooted in love, humility, and justice. They faced the power structures of their day not with a desire to dominate but with a commitment to a different kind of strength—one that served and uplifted. For these early followers, love wasn’t a feeling but an action. And it wasn’t reserved for people who looked or thought like them. This love reached out to anyone on the margins, anyone who’d been pushed aside. It was radical, boundless, and inclusive. Their values also centered around community and dignity. Faith was never a solo journey. It was about lifting each other up, valuing each person’s inherent worth, and recognizing that authentic leadership came from serving others. Power and status weren’t the goals; they prioritized empathy and deep connection. Humility was another cornerstone of the Way. Strength wasn’t found in certainty or control but in vulnerability, listening, and shared humanity. They didn’t draw harsh lines between “us” and “them.” Instead, they embraced compassion and sought common ground. And justice—well, that was essential. They knew words without action were empty. Justice wasn’t just an ideal; it was a call to ensure everyone was valued and every voice was heard. So, while Christian nationalism may align itself with political agendas and power, the original Way was a completely different story. It was about love, humility, service, and justice. It was about action, about building bridges instead of walls, and creating space for each other with compassion at the center.