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.

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.