Author: Kern Family

Welcome to The Keep. We're Alan and Joelle Kern, and this blog serves as our family's digital journal. Here we share our experiences as parents to Luke, Levi, and Aletheia, along with our faithful dog, Augustine (Gus). Alan's background spans from military service to evangelical ministry, and now to software engineering with a focus on AI. When he’s not working on a company project, he’s playing sports with the kids, gardening, or reading about a new branch of knowledge he hasn’t explored yet. Joelle is the cornerstone of our home life. She manages the kids’ homeschool and is passionate about developing our backyard into a sustainable food forest. You can usually find her helping lead our local homeschool co-op committee or taking the kids out to a sunny park day with friends. We’re looking to answer the question: what would happen if you threw away conventional thought about everything and worked tirelessly toward finding and pursuing the Good and the True? We hope this leads us to paths that will stretch us beyond a conventional American lifestyle and into a life of purpose and joy.

The Figure Above the Sapphire Sea

~ Kern Family ~ 1 Comment

It’s about 2am, and I must write down the journey I had through Exodus tonight.

The long office reading in Liturgy of the Hours today is Exodus 24 where Moses and the elders “see” the one who brought them out of Egypt. It makes note of the clear sapphire floor beneath the figure’s feet, a detail I always found odd. It drove me into a tailspin of parallel research in Revelation and other books to double check some things.

And it got me wondering: who exactly, and I mean very precisely, was sitting atop the sapphire sea? God is ambiguous. John clearly tells us that no one has seen God. Is this another preincarnate Theophany, whatever that is? That feels a bit hand-wavey and vague. Is it a symbolic vision, a type of visual storytelling, as I’ve always understood it? Also hand-wavey, as it doesn’t answer the question precisely.

We know that God resides in the Eternal Present, the “static” reality of eternity (by static, I mean in the programmer’s sense: unchanging and uncreated). Time is an artifact, a creature. The realm of eternity exists above it. This is the biggest mental hurdle to jump for creatures of time like us. It’s easy to say God is not bound by time, and another to stop yourself from thinking God waits for anything. From God’s vantage point, all things are present and at once. He is present at all moments in time and therefore does not wait for anything to happen.

So what about events in time that supposedly happen to God? We say, for example, the Word was incarnate of the Virgin Mary and became man. Did God have to wait for Mary to be born? Before Jesus was conceived, was the Logos in a kind of preincarnate state? If so, what is that state, and how does he, say, walk with Adam, or wrestle with Jacob, or stand with Daniel in the Babylonian furnace?

And that’s when I realized that from God’s vantage point, the incarnation, death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus are simultaneous. They are already written. In a sense, they are already true and have already happened. God has decreed that he would become man. So from an eternal perspective, God is in some sense always incarnate of the Virgin Mary, and has always been united to man’s nature in the God-man, Jesus.

If Jesus is God in the eternal act, this gives weight behind Paul’s statement that all things were created by Jesus (Col. 1:16). Jesus is the invisible God’s visible image not simply after he was born, but in eternity. That is, when God penned creation by eternal decree, he had fully intended the life of Christ as the representation of himself. God cannot be fully visible by any other image. From our vantage point in time, we are merely awakening to what is already true in the eyes of God.

If we should conceive of Jesus as the eternal image of the Son as we say in the Nicene Creed, are we to believe that, prior to the birth of Jesus, God fashioned a human body for himself to inhabit that is not Jesus? This seems to open more questions. What sort of body or form did he create? What does God do with that body after he’s inhabited it? Was it actually a human body or something else? In what sense did he inhabit it, if he inhabited it at all? This is no way to answer who Moses saw atop Sinai.

Since we know the visible icon of God is Jesus, we should assume, like Paul, this is true throughout time. But isn’t the birth of Jesus in the future from Moses’s vantage point? Yes, but again, Jesus is united to the Logos in the eternal decree of God (the Now). Therefore, in the Now, Jesus is already the lamb slain before the foundation of the world, since those time-bound events are already true in the Now. And therefore, in the Now, Jesus, the carpenter from Nazareth, is God.

So who did Moses see atop Sinai? He saw Jesus. He did not see an ephemeral vision of the Godhead, an impossibility for man, but the image of God, the risen Lord Jesus. The resurrection of Jesus happens in the future time of the Romans, yes, but, once resurrected, the glorified body of Jesus is no longer constrained by time in the same way we are. We know that he is no longer bound by physics because he is able to walk through a locked door, transform his appearance, and appear in multiple places at once. He is also no longer bound by time. We have a very well-known example of a future reality inbreaking into the present: the Transfiguration. It occurs prior to his resurrection, but is the display of his glorified body post-resurrection. This is a Chekov Gun that is dropped midway in the Gospels to demonstrate the mechanism of Jesus’s forward-and-backward ministry. He is now not simply the Lord of heaven and earth, but of time itself. We might call this bilocation or sacramental presence. By virtue of the Hypostatic Union and his resurrected body now ascended, he can miraculously participate in history retroactively.

To put it another way, the one who said, “Let there be light” is rightly identified as the resurrected Jesus. The one who walked with Adam and Eve in the garden was the glorified Jesus. And if Moses had been able to look at the true form of God and had asked to see his hands and side, I speculate that he may have seen nail-pierced hands and a wounded side. The God-man has been and always will be the image of the Creator. And hence, Jesus can rightly tell Phillip that anyone who has seen him has seen the Father, as if it should’ve been obvious by now.

That Christ occupies a preeminent position in time explains the patterns of the universe better: nature’s cycles conform to the Passion rather than the Passion being conformed to nature’s cycles. The author of creation is in fact Jesus. It should therefore be no surprise that everything in creation is a kind of emanation of the Gospel story rather than the Gospel story being one emanation of life. For example, the “circle of life” is patterned after the birth, death, and resurrection of Christ, the concept of “other” and family/friends is patterned from the Trinity, the suffering of life is designed from the cross, and so on. These are emanation of the eternal decree of God from the mind of the author, Christ. It is confusing to us in time because we see the life of Christ happen after creation, but in eternity, the life of Christ logically precedes creation!

One implication of this is that we should see the cosmos as a series of hieroglyphs encoded and revealed only by its Rosetta Stone, the life of Christ. This is why Christ is rightly called the Archetype. The marriage of the eternal (God) and matter (man) is eternally decreed because Christ wills to draw creation into the wedding chambers of divinity. This is in fact why we have creation at all. As Paul says, from him and through him and for him are all things.

I want to describe the implications this has on the Mass, especially the Eucharist, where we find the resurrected body of Christ hiding in the same way he hid from the disciples in the garden of Emmaus and where he consecrates a better Mt. Sinai and meeting place of heaven and earth. But that’s for another night.

The Five Support Pillars of Modern Wellness

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We all know the basics by now—get enough sleep, eat well, exercise regularly, and avoid smoking and alcohol. These are the cornerstones of good health that no one really argues about anymore. But there’s more out there. With new research and growing interest in holistic wellness, we’re starting to understand that small, practical habits can significantly impact our health in ways we never thought about before.

So, if you’ve got the basics covered, it’s time to dive deeper into five modern wellness essentials that will take your health to the next level. From morning sunlight to saunas, these practices are accessible, scientifically supported, and could be the missing pieces in your routine.

1. Get Morning Sun Exposure

You’ve heard of the importance of sleep, but did you know that what you do first thing in the morning can influence your ability to rest at night? Getting sunlight within the first 30 minutes of waking up helps regulate your circadian rhythm—the body’s internal clock. According to Dr. Andrew Huberman, a neuroscientist at Stanford University, morning sunlight not only boosts your mood and energy but also improves your focus throughout the day. Huberman explains that when your eyes sense sunlight, they send signals to the brain that help set the body’s timer for when it’s time to wind down later, resulting in better sleep.

Even 10–15 minutes of exposure in the morning can make a huge difference. The key is to get outside, without sunglasses if possible, and let the natural light do its work. It’s a small shift that can improve your sleep, energy levels, and overall sense of well-being.

2. Practice Grounding

Grounding, also known as earthing, is the practice of making direct contact with the earth—like walking barefoot on grass or sand. This might sound a bit “out there,” but it’s based on the idea that modern life has disconnected us from the natural electrical charge of the earth. My friend, an electrical engineer at Northrop Grumman, has this theory that the electromagnetic fields (EMFs) from all our technology can build up a positive charge in the body. He argues that we need grounding to discharge this buildup, the way humans would naturally have done while living closer to the earth.

There’s growing research suggesting grounding can reduce inflammation, improve sleep, and even reduce chronic pain. It doesn’t take much: spending time barefoot outside or using a grounding mat indoors can be a good way to reconnect with the earth and, possibly, balance your body’s electrical state.

3. Regular Sauna Use for Longevity

The health benefits of sauna use are hard to ignore. In fact, a long-term study out of Finland showed that regular sauna sessions can significantly reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease and even extend your lifespan. Saunas help the body detox by sweating out heavy metals and other toxins, improve circulation, and have been linked to a reduction in all-cause mortality.

If you’re aiming to incorporate this into your life, you don’t need to spend hours in there. Research suggests that 15–20 minutes in a sauna, a few times a week, can offer significant benefits. The heat stress also has been shown to increase the production of heat shock proteins, which help protect cells from stress and may contribute to longevity.

4. Eat Fermented Foods for Gut Health

Gut health has quickly become one of the hottest topics in the wellness world, and for good reason. There’s increasing evidence that the gut and brain are directly connected, and the state of your gut can affect everything from your mood to your immune system. One of the easiest ways to support your gut health is by eating fermented foods rich in probiotics, like kimchi, kefir, sauerkraut, or yogurt. These foods help balance the gut microbiome, the community of bacteria that plays a critical role in digestion and overall health.

New studies show that a healthy gut may even reduce inflammation, which is linked to a range of chronic illnesses. Adding fermented foods to your diet a few times a week can be a simple, natural way to improve digestion, enhance your immune response, and even positively impact mental health.

5. Avoid Common “Poison Pitfalls” in Daily Life

We all know to avoid things like smoking and too much alcohol, but modern life is filled with other hidden toxins that we often overlook. The good news? You don’t need to make drastic changes to avoid them—just some small, conscious shifts can make a big difference.

• Pesticides in Produce: A simple solution is to wash your fruits and vegetables in a baking soda and water solution. Let them soak for 10–15 minutes to help remove pesticide residue, which has been linked to various health issues.

• Household Cleaners and Artificial Fragrances: Many household products contain harmful chemicals, even the ones labeled “natural.” Consider switching to non-toxic cleaners and avoiding artificial fragrances, which often contain phthalates and other endocrine disruptors.

• Glyphosate (Roundup): A controversial herbicide found in many products, glyphosate has been linked to cancer and other health issues. If you’re gardening or managing weeds, opt for natural alternatives instead of Roundup to avoid potential long-term harm.

These may seem like small changes, but over time, reducing your exposure to toxins can have a major impact on your overall health.

Wrapping It All Up

The best part about these modern wellness pillars is that they’re easy to integrate into your life. You don’t have to overhaul everything at once—just pick one or two to start with and see how you feel. By getting some morning sun, eating fermented foods, or spending a little time in a sauna, you’re layering in practices that have been shown to improve everything from your energy to your longevity.

Health isn’t about perfection; it’s about finding simple, effective ways to support your body. These five pillars are a good place to start.

Missionaries of Love, Not Fear: How Martyrs Like St. Jean de Brebeuf Prove Eternal Hell Isn’t Necessary for Mission

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What drives true missionary work? Some argue that fear of eternal punishment—hell—fuels the urgency to bring the Gospel to the world. In evangelical circles, it’s often said that without the high stakes of hellfire, there wouldn’t be enough motivation for mission work. But the lives of the saints and martyrs tell a different story.

Saint Jean de Brebeuf, a French Jesuit missionary to the Huron people in the 17th century, stands as a powerful example of someone who gave his life to the Gospel, not out of fear of what awaited others in the afterlife, but from a deep love of Christ and a desire to suffer with Him. His story, along with countless others, shows us that the heart of true mission is not rooted in fear but in love—love for Christ, His passion, and for those who have yet to know Him.

Saint Jean de Brebeuf left behind the comforts of France to immerse himself in the lives of the Huron people in what is now Canada. For nearly two decades, he lived among them, learning their language, understanding their culture, and sharing the Gospel. Brebeuf didn’t see the Huron people as projects to be saved from hell, but as brothers and sisters whom Christ loved deeply.

He endured unimaginable hardships—extreme weather, disease, hunger, and threats from rival tribes. Despite these challenges, his mission was clear: to bring the love of Christ to the Huron people, not through coercion or fear, but through patience and compassion. His dedication was grounded in the belief that Christ’s suffering on the cross was the ultimate expression of love, and to share in that suffering was to be close to Christ Himself.

Brebeuf’s martyrdom in 1649 stands as the culmination of his lifelong commitment. When the Iroquois captured him and other missionaries, they subjected him to brutal torture. They sawed off pieces of his body, placed burning coals on his skin, and poured boiling water over him, mocking baptism. Yet even in the face of this agony, Brebeuf did not curse his captors or cry out in despair. Instead, he remained steadfast, offering his suffering as a testimony to the love of Christ, even praying for his torturers. His death was not about escaping punishment or ensuring the salvation of others through fear—it was about love, the kind of love Christ showed on the cross.

From his diary entry shared in today’s Office of Readings:

“For two days now I have experienced a great desire to be a martyr and to endure all the torments the martyrs suffered.

Jesus, my Lord and Savior, what can I give you in return for all the favors you have first conferred on me? I will take from your hand the cup of your sufferings and call on your name. I vow before your eternal Father and the Holy Spirit, before your most holy Mother and her most chaste spouse, before the angels, apostles and martyrs, before my blessed fathers Saint Ignatius and Saint Francis Xavier—in truth I vow to you, Jesus my Savior, that as far as I have the strength I will never fail to accept the grace of martyrdom, if some day you in your infinite mercy would offer it to me, your most unworthy servant.

I bind myself in this way so that for the rest of my life I will have neither permission nor freedom to refuse opportunities of dying and shedding my blood for you, unless at a particular juncture I should consider it more suitable for your glory to act otherwise at that time. Further, I bind myself to this so that, on receiving the blow of death, I shall accept it from your hands with the fullest delight and joy of spirit. For this reason, my beloved Jesus, and because of the surging joy which moves me, here and now I offer my blood and body and life. May I die only for you, if you will grant me this grace, since you willingly died for me. Let me so live that you may grant me the gift of such a happy death. In this way, my God and Savior, I will take from your hand the cup of your sufferings and call on your name: Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!

My God, it grieves me greatly that you are not known, that in this savage wilderness all have not been converted to you, that sin has not been driven from it. My God, even if all the brutal tortures which prisoners in this region must endure should fall on me, I offer myself most willingly to them and I alone shall suffer them all.”

Here is a man motivated by the passion of Christ and the spiritual yearning to partake in that passion for the benefit of his neighbor.

Martyrs at Large

Brebeuf’s story is not unique among the saints and martyrs. From the earliest days of Christianity, men and women have given their lives for the Gospel, not because they feared hell but because they were filled with a profound love for Christ and a desire to participate in His passion. Saints like Ignatius of Antioch, who eagerly embraced martyrdom, saw their deaths not as a way to escape damnation but as an opportunity to be united with Christ in His suffering.

Saint Perpetua, an early Christian martyr, faced death in the Roman Colosseum with the same resolve. She did not fear the punishment of her executioners; instead, she saw her suffering as a way to witness to the reality of Christ’s love. In her prison diary, Perpetua wrote of the joy she felt in knowing she would soon see Christ, even if it meant enduring the painful death of a martyr. Like Brebeuf, Perpetua’s motivation was not fear of punishment but love—a love so deep it could withstand any earthly trial.

These martyrs understood that Christ’s passion was the heart of the Gospel. They believed that to follow Christ was to embrace the cross, to share in His sufferings, and to bring the hope of resurrection to others. They saw their suffering not as something to be avoided, but as something that brought them closer to Christ and allowed them to witness to the power of His love.

In many evangelical circles today, the idea persists that eternal punishment—hell—is the necessary motivator for missionary work. The argument often goes that if we did not believe in eternal damnation, we would lose the urgency to evangelize. Without the threat of hell, some say, there would be no reason to risk comfort, safety, or life for the sake of the Gospel.

But the lives of the saints and martyrs tell a different story. Saint Jean de Brebeuf and others were not driven by fear of hell. Their missionary zeal came from a place of deep love for Christ and a desire to share His love with others. They were not motivated by the need to save others from punishment, but by the beauty of Christ’s passion and the opportunity to share in His sufferings.

The saints show us that the stakes of missionary work don’t have to be framed in terms of hellfire and eternal punishment. Instead, the greatest motivator can be love—the love of Christ that compels us to go to the ends of the earth, to suffer alongside others, and to bring them the joy of knowing Him. Missionary work grounded in love rather than fear has the power to transform not only the people being evangelized but also the missionaries themselves, as they come to experience Christ in a deeper, more intimate way.

Saint Jean de Brebeuf, along with countless other martyrs, reveals that true missionary work is not fueled by fear of punishment but by love—love for Christ and love for those who do not yet know Him. Their willingness to suffer and die was not about avoiding hell or ensuring others avoided it. Instead, it was about sharing in Christ’s passion and bringing the Gospel to others out of a deep and abiding love.

As we reflect on the lives of these saints, we are reminded that the Church’s mission is not about instilling fear but about sharing the love of Christ. When love is at the center of our missionary work, the need for punishment and fear fades away, and what remains is the joy of sharing in the sufferings of Christ and the hope of the resurrection.

The Engine of the Eschaton: Jesus, Time, and the Power of the Future

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Throughout the Gospels, we encounter moments when Jesus heals the sick, restores the blind, raises the dead, and calms the storm. These events feel like cracks in the fabric of reality where the rules of the world give way to something more profound. But beneath these miracles lies a process—one that stretches across time and space, where the future breaks into the present, where the life of the new creation seeps into a world still marred by decay and death.

What if these moments weren’t just divine actions within the here and now but were tied to a much larger unfolding of God’s future kingdom? A process where Jesus was drawing power from the future—the same future the prophets glimpsed in their visions of the enthroned Lord and the restored creation.

In the visions of Isaiah, Ezekiel, and Daniel, we see God revealed in his glory, reigning over a reality where all things have been made new. These prophets were given a glimpse of the future Christ, seated in glory, reigning over the completed new creation. It was not just a symbolic vision—it was a window into the future, a reality already secured in Christ, stretching across time to reveal itself to them.

The Prophets’ Vision of the Future

Isaiah saw the Lord seated on a throne, his robe filling the temple, surrounded by seraphim who cried, “Holy, holy, holy.” Ezekiel witnessed the throne of God carried by living creatures, with wheels full of eyes, a vision so overwhelming that he fell facedown. Daniel, too, saw a vision of the Son of Man coming with the clouds of heaven, brought before the Ancient of Days to be given an everlasting dominion.

What if these prophets, separated by time and circumstance, were all granted visions of the same reality? What they saw was not a vision of their present but of the glorified Christ, reigning in the future. Their vantage points were different, but their vision was unified—they saw the same Lord, the same throne, the same kingdom, already established.

This future reality wasn’t some distant hope for them. It existed beyond time, and they were given access to it through their visions. In those moments, they weren’t just predicting what was to come; they were gazing into a future that was fully present in God. The power they witnessed is the same power that would later work through Jesus during his ministry. The new creation they saw was already alive, waiting to be revealed, waiting to break through into the world.

Jesus Drawing from the Future

In his ministry, Jesus wasn’t just working miracles within the boundaries of the present world. He was reaching into that same future the prophets had seen—the perfected creation, the resurrection life—and bringing it forward into the present. When Jesus healed the blind, restored life to the dead, and multiplied loaves, he was pulling from the fullness of the new creation, allowing it to touch the brokenness of the current world.

Jesus didn’t merely heal bodies; he was bringing the life of the resurrection into those bodies. The blind man’s restored sight wasn’t just a repair—it was a foretaste of the future reality where blindness no longer exists. When Jesus called Lazarus from the tomb, it was more than a resuscitation—it was an echo of the resurrection power that would one day make all things new. Every miracle was part of a larger process, where the future reality of the new creation began to leak into the present, showing glimpses of what was to come.

And this wasn’t just a temporary phenomenon. The future kingdom was always alive in Jesus. As the God-man, he was fully connected to both the present world and the future new creation. The power he drew upon wasn’t a display of isolated divinity; it was the power of the future world, flowing through him. The prophets had seen it in their visions, and Jesus carried it in his very being, channeling it into the present through his actions.

The Spirit and the Flow of New Creation

The presence of the Holy Spirit was key to this process. The Spirit, who descended upon Jesus at his baptism, wasn’t simply there to mark him as the Messiah—it was through the Spirit that the life of the future flowed into him. The Spirit is the active agent connecting the future reality of the new creation to the present, making it possible for Jesus to draw from that future life and manifest it in the here and now.

The miracles of Jesus were not momentary disruptions in the natural order; they were moments where the natural order was touched by the new creation. The Spirit facilitated this connection, allowing the future to break through into the present. The power that the prophets saw in their visions of the future kingdom—the life and glory of the throne room—was the same power the Spirit made available to Jesus in his ministry. Through the Spirit, the life of the future became a present reality, even if only in glimpses.

Jesus’ Resurrected Body: A Glimpse of the Future Creation

After his resurrection, Jesus’ body took on a new nature. It wasn’t bound by the same limitations as before. He could appear in rooms behind locked doors, vanish from sight, and yet he was still physical—he could be touched, and he ate with his disciples. His body was not merely spiritual, nor was it purely physical as we understand it now. It was something more—a new creation body, fully integrated with the life of the future kingdom.

This resurrected body was a glimpse of what is to come. It operated within a different framework, where the laws of time and space no longer applied in the same way. Jesus’ resurrected body was not subject to decay or death. It was a body fully alive in the new creation, and through it, we see the future leaking into the present. This is the future that the prophets had seen, the future that Jesus carried with him and revealed through his life, death, and resurrection.

The New Creation and the Church

This process of the future breaking into the present didn’t end with Jesus. Through the Spirit, the Church is now connected to that same future reality. Paul speaks of the Spirit as a “deposit,” a guarantee of what is to come. The new creation is already alive in us because the Spirit is alive in us. We are fragile vessels, but the treasure we carry is the life of the future, the life of the resurrection that will one day transform the entire cosmos.

The Church is not just waiting for the kingdom to come; we are part of the process by which the kingdom is already breaking into the present. Through the Spirit, we are mediators of this future life, bearing the fruit of the new creation even in a world still marred by sin and death. As Jesus drew from the future to heal and restore, so too does the Spirit work in us to bring the life of the new creation into the world around us.

Speculation: The Process of New Creation Breaking Through

If we venture deeper into theological speculation, we might ask, what is the mechanism behind this process? How does the new creation “leak” into the present? The prophets saw visions of a reality beyond time, a future where God’s glory was fully revealed. Jesus, in his ministry, was already connected to that future, drawing from its life and power.

Could it be that the Spirit serves as the conduit through which this future life flows? The Spirit connects us to the reality of the new creation, allowing its life to touch the present world. The miracles of Jesus were not isolated events—they were part of a larger, ongoing process, a process that continues today through the Spirit. The new creation is leaking into the present, and we, through the Spirit, are participants in that process.

Through the Spirit, the life of the future kingdom is breaking through, one moment at a time, giving us glimpses of the world to come. The process that began with the prophets’ visions, that was embodied in Jesus, and that continues through the Church, is the unfolding of the new creation. It is a reality that is already established, already alive, and it is drawing the present world toward its ultimate renewal.

Creativity as the Calling of Christians

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God’s Poetry and the Call to Create

N.T. Wright once pointed out something in Ephesians 2 that struck a chord with me. The passage tells us that we are God’s handiwork—it’s a word, he says, that conveys the idea of His poetry or artwork. It’s a stunning image, isn’t it? Not just the idea that God made us, but that He made us with the same care and creativity He put into everything else in creation. We are not afterthoughts or assembly-line products. We are intricate, intentional, and unique expressions of His divine craftsmanship.

But if that’s true, what does it mean for us? What does it mean to be the poetry of God in a world that feels more broken than beautiful most days? And what does it mean to imitate Christ, who Himself reflected God’s creative genius? It can’t mean sitting around and waiting, can it? Surely it means more than that. Wright’s point reminds us that we’re meant to be active participants in God’s unfolding plan, not just spectators on the sidelines. And this calls us to reject the idea that we should pass the time idly, waiting for God to “come back and fix it all.”

A Creative God, A Creative People

When N.T. Wright says we are God’s poetry, he’s pulling us into a deeper understanding of what it means to belong to a creative God. Look around at creation: there’s nothing random or careless about it. From the vastness of the stars to the smallest atom, everything is crafted with intention and beauty. That same creativity pulses in us because we are made in the image of that Creator.

But it doesn’t stop there. When we look at the person of Christ, we see the ultimate expression of God’s creative work. Jesus didn’t just come to patch up a broken system. He introduced something radically new—He made a way for us to be new creations. And as Paul tells us in Philippians 2, we’re meant to have the mind of Christ, to follow in His steps.

To me, that means more than just a call to holiness; it’s a call to creative action. We are meant to reflect God’s craftsmanship in the way we approach our work, our relationships, and the world around us. Being a Christian isn’t about living in default mode. It’s about letting the same creativity that built the universe flow through us into everything we do.

Creativity is a Christian’s Calling

In a way, this creative call is woven into the fabric of Scripture. Genesis doesn’t just describe God creating; it describes Him inviting us into that process of cultivation and stewardship. Even in the New Testament, we see that living in the Spirit means bearing fruit, producing something with the life God has given us.

C.S. Lewis once said that being in God’s image means we are made to “create in the same sense that He creates.” Not on His scale, of course, but in the same spirit. We’re not called to idleness, to repetitive or menial tasks just to get by until the end comes. Instead, we are to take up the same role Jesus did—creating, redeeming, and restoring wherever we go. This isn’t something we do because we have to; it’s something we do because it’s in our DNA as God’s children.

Rejecting the Fatalistic View

But here’s where we run into a problem. Too often, we fall into a sort of spiritual fatalism. We buy into this idea that God will one day destroy everything and remake it from scratch, so why bother doing anything now? We can fall into thinking that our job is just to keep our heads down, mind our own business, and bide our time until Christ returns.

This, as N.T. Wright and others have pointed out, is a massive misunderstanding of what it means to follow Jesus. The kingdom of God isn’t something we sit around and wait for—it’s something that has already broken into the world through Christ. We’re called to participate in that kingdom now. Yes, we await the fullness of it, but in the meantime, we’re meant to be His agents of renewal, His poets in action.

Wright is pushing back against a simplistic eschatology that promotes disengagement. If we think the endgame is just God wiping the slate clean, then of course we won’t bother trying to bring beauty, order, or justice to the world now. But that’s not how the New Testament frames things. The world is already being redeemed, and we’re invited to partner with God in that work. To sit on our hands is to deny our role as stewards of creation.

Creative Genius for Modern Challenges

If ever there were a time to embrace this creative calling, it’s now. The challenges we face today are like nothing the world has ever seen before. We’re dealing with environmental crises, technological upheaval, and societal fractures that demand new, creative solutions. And as Christians, we have the mind of Christ—that same divine creativity that brought order out of chaos at the beginning of time. We’re not meant to shrink back or wait for the world to get worse. We’re meant to lean into these challenges with the boldness of people who know that God is making all things new.

This is where N.T. Wright’s vision hits home for me. The idea that we are God’s poetry calls us to reject the passive, nihilistic mindset that has infected too much of our thinking. We need the creative genius of Jesus Christ working in and through us to face these challenges. And that doesn’t mean grand, sweeping gestures necessarily. It might mean small, faithful acts of creativity and care in our daily lives, but those things matter because they reflect God’s ongoing work in the world.

A Life of Creative Engagement

So, where does that leave us? If we are truly God’s handiwork, His poetry, then we can’t afford to live as if we’re just killing time until the end comes. We’re called to more than that. We’re called to reflect the creative genius of our Maker and to embody the care and intentionality that He pours into everything He makes.

It’s easy to fall into fatalism, to think that our efforts don’t matter because God is going to “fix” everything later. But N.T. Wright helps us see that this is a distortion of the Christian hope. The kingdom of God has already come in part, and we’re invited to participate in its unfolding here and now. So let’s be about that work, in whatever way God has gifted us, knowing that even our small acts of creativity are part of His grand, redemptive plan.

As God’s poetry, we have the privilege of being both His creation and His co-creators. Let’s not waste that gift. Let’s allow His creativity to flow through us as we face the challenges of today, knowing that our work is not in vain.

Why Ambition is Misunderstood, and How Gregory the Great Redeems It

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There’s an unspoken rule in some Christian circles: ambition is dangerous. If you’re a person with energy, drive, and a desire to excel, chances are you’ve already been silently or outrightly labeled as a prideful person. It appears to be a quiet, undercurrent belief that ambition is pride manifest.

But ambition itself is not the enemy. Pope Gregory the Great, one of the Church’s most influential leaders, offered words that changed my perspective when he said: “Do not fear to set your ambition to become a saint.”

This quote broke something loose inside me. For too long, I felt stifled by the messaging that my ambition—my drive to push myself and test my limits—was something dangerous. But Gregory’s words reframed it all. Ambition is not something to fear. Ambition, when aimed at holiness, is one of the most powerful forces a person can wield. It can lift the weak, serve the poor, and glorify God.

A Brief Example

When I was a pastor, I made a habit of running to the gym instead of driving—about a mile away from my house. It wasn’t vanity; it was about keeping my heart healthy, pushing my body to its limits, and keeping my temple strong. It was part of my way of giving life my best effort.

One day, my wife mentioned this routine to a pastor’s wife, and the response was immediate: “What, is that a pride thing?” It was the kind of sneer that implied that my desire to push myself physically—to take care of my body—was prideful.

This wasn’t the first time I’d felt that underlying suspicion. Whether at church or in other Christian settings, the idea of being ambitious, of wanting to excel, was constantly questioned, as if ambition in itself was something wrong.

But here’s where Pope Gregory’s words helped me realize a deeper truth. It’s not ambition itself that’s dangerous. Every virtue has an opposite vice. The real issue is how we use our ambition. Ambition can be selfish, yes, but it can also be consecrated. It can be used to build ourselves up, or it can be channeled to build others up.

Gregory’s challenge is simple: “Do not fear to set your ambition to become a saint.” This was a message that changed how I viewed ambition. I didn’t need to bury it. I needed to aim it toward the greatest goal: sainthood. Holiness.

The Example of Judas in The Chosen

This tension between ambition and humility is perfectly illustrated in the latest season of The Chosen. Judas, the disciple most often seen as the ultimate symbol of betrayal and pride, is portrayed early on as someone with bold ideas. He comes into Jesus’ ministry with suggestions—taking collections, setting up reward systems, and thinking creatively about how to expand the mission. He encourages the disciples to think bigger and bolder.

But the reaction from the other disciples is clear: they push back. They tell Judas to quiet down, to “just do the work you’re told.” There’s an undercurrent of suspicion toward his ambition that is plainly told by the director, toward the fact that he’s thinking outside of the box or thinking too greatly.

This reflects a broader attitude in Christian culture—one that often views ambition with suspicion. The idea is that if you’re too bold, if you dream too big, you must be prideful. But Judas’ problem (at least on screen) wasn’t that he had big ideas. The problem was that his ambition wasn’t rooted in serving others. It wasn’t grounded in love or humility. I wish that the writers had baked this into the script.

Pope Gregory’s message could have been a balm for the Judas we see on screen. Don’t fear ambition—just consecrate it serve. Judas didn’t need to stifle his ambition. He needed to reframe it according to the Beatitudes. If his ambition had been channeled toward truly helping the poor, lifting the downtrodden, or glorifying God, things might have turned out differently.

Ambition as a Gift

What Pope Gregory understood is that ambition can be a gift when it’s channeled for good. Gregory didn’t shy away from encouraging Christians to pursue greatness. In his time, he saw the potential in strong, driven people to do great things for God’s Kingdom. He knew that ambition for sainthood was not only acceptable, it was necessary.

St. Paul echoes this idea in Philippians 2:3, where he tells us to “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves.” Paul doesn’t condemn ambition. He condemns selfish ambition. The difference is key. Ambition, when directed toward others, toward service and love, becomes one of the most powerful tools we have as Christians. As he says elsewhere, outdo one another in love.

In fact, ambition should be redeemed, not suppressed. The world doesn’t need people who are afraid to be strong. It needs those who are willing to use their strength for the right reasons.

Pope Gregory saw this clearly. He understood that ambition, when rooted in love, can change the world. He once wrote, “Where love exists, it works great things.” This is the key to understanding holy ambition: love must guide it. Ambition that is grounded in love is not selfish. It serves. It builds. It protects. It glorifies God.

A Call Back to Ambition

The world often pushes us to believe that ambition is something to be stifled, something that should be kept in check to avoid pride. But this approach fails to recognize the potential that God has given us. God gave you ambition for a reason. There’s no need to bury it or be ashamed of it.

Like Pope Gregory said, set your ambition on becoming a saint. That is the highest goal, and it’s one that requires boldness. You are allowed to aim high. You are allowed to dream big and strive for greatness, as long as your ambition is rooted in love and service to others.

Ambition isn’t the problem. It’s how we use it. Ambition, when directed toward holiness, can change the world. It can build up the Church, strengthen the weak, protect the vulnerable, and serve the poor. God created us with the drive to do great things—not for our own glory, but for His.

So don’t fear your ambition. Use it. Let it push you toward holiness, toward serving others, and toward making a lasting impact for God’s Kingdom.

Pope Gregory’s words—“Do not fear to set your ambition to become a saint”—reminded me that it’s not ambition that’s the problem; it’s what we do with it. So don’t be afraid to aim for sainthood. Don’t be afraid to consecrate your passion and your dreams of higher things to serve the lower things. Let your ambition drive you toward lifting up the Lord Jesus, and with him, our neighbor.

The Prodigal Son and the Hope of Universal Reconciliation: A Reflection on Origen’s Vision

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The Parable of the Prodigal Son has long been understood as a simple story of forgiveness, a tale where a rebellious son finds his way home and is welcomed by his loving father. But what if this story holds something deeper, a hint at a far-reaching truth about God’s ultimate plan for all of humanity? Christian Universalism, particularly as Origen taught, offers a compelling vision: that all souls, no matter how lost, will one day be restored to God. By revisiting this parable through the lens of Origen’s apokatastasis—the restoration of all things—we may uncover the subtle hints Jesus left about the fate of humanity.

The Younger Son: Rebellion, Return, and Redemption

At the heart of the parable is the younger son, who embodies humanity’s fall into sin and separation from God. His rebellion, fueled by selfish desires, leads him far from his father’s house. Yet, his story doesn’t end there. Broke and broken, he returns home, expecting judgment but instead receiving grace.

The father runs to him, embraces him, and restores him to his rightful place as a son. This moment illustrates the core of the Christian message: no matter how far we stray, God’s grace is always ready to restore us. The younger son’s return and his father’s reaction mirror the hope that Origen saw in the gospel—the idea that God’s love is so powerful that even the most wayward soul can find a way home.

But this isn’t the full story. The younger son’s restoration is only part of the picture. There’s another figure lingering outside the feast—the older brother.

The Older Brother: Resistance and the Open Door

The older brother represents another side of humanity: those who resist grace, whether out of pride, jealousy, or self-righteousness. He stands outside the celebration, bitter and judgmental. He cannot understand how his younger brother, after squandering everything, could be welcomed back with open arms. This character is often overlooked, but in the context of Christian Universalism, his story holds great significance.

While the parable ends without telling us what happens next, Jesus leaves us a critical clue. The father doesn’t reject the older son or condemn him for his bitterness. Instead, he offers a gentle reminder: “My son, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.” The father leaves the door open, both literally and figuratively. He invites the older son to step inside and join the celebration, just as he invited the younger son to return home.

This open-ended conclusion is key. It doesn’t end with the older son permanently outside; it ends with an invitation. In this way, the parable hints at a broader hope—that even those who resist or stand in judgment are not beyond God’s reach. The father’s posture is one of eternal patience, a reflection of the belief that, ultimately, all will be reconciled to God.

The Father’s Posture: A Symbol of God’s Endless Grace

The father in the parable symbolizes God’s unchanging nature: ever loving, ever patient, and ever open to reconciliation. He doesn’t slam the door on the older brother, just as God never closes the door on anyone. This is where Origen’s vision of apokatastasis—the belief that all things will be restored to God—comes into play. For Origen, the open-endedness of this story suggests that no soul is irredeemable.

God, like the father in the parable, continues to extend His hand to both the rebellious and the self-righteous. The lack of final resolution in the story is not a narrative flaw, but rather an invitation to see the larger picture—that the offer of grace never expires. This posture of the father reflects Origen’s conviction that God will ultimately draw all people to Himself, even those who initially refuse His grace.

The Lost Sheep, the Lost Coin, and the Lost Son

To further understand this universal hope, it helps to look at other parables that carry similar themes. The parables of the lost sheep and the lost coin, for example, both center on the relentless pursuit of what is lost. In each case, the story ends in joy, not because the lost object deserved to be found, but because the one who lost it never gave up searching.

Jesus says in Luke 15:4-7, “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it?” The implication is clear: God seeks out the lost until they are found. The same can be said for the Prodigal Son. The father’s joy is not conditional on the younger son’s perfection; it is purely the result of his return. The same joy is extended to the older brother, if only he would step inside.

These parables, when read together, paint a picture of a God whose mercy knows no limits, a God who will not rest until all are brought home. Origen, in his reflections, saw these parables as evidence that in the end, no soul would remain lost forever.

The Open Ending: A Clue to the Final Restoration

Returning to the Prodigal Son, we see that its unresolved ending invites us to consider a deeper truth. The story doesn’t tell us what happens next, but it leaves us with a hopeful expectation: the father’s love, represented by the open door, remains available. The older brother is not condemned to remain outside forever. The door remains open, the invitation extended.

For those who, like Origen, look closely at the nature of God, this open ending suggests the ultimate reconciliation of all people. The parable invites us to believe that, just as the younger son was restored, so too will the older son—and, by extension, all of humanity—eventually join the feast. The parable leaves us with hope, not only for individual salvation but for the final restoration of all creation.

Conclusion: Origen’s Vision and the Gospel’s Universal Promise

Origen’s vision of apokatastasis wasn’t a fringe idea but a natural outflow of the gospel message. The Prodigal Son, when read in light of this broader hope, hints at the universal reconciliation of all souls. The father’s open invitation to the older brother stands as a symbol of God’s endless grace, always extended, never revoked.

As the parable suggests, the final act is yet to come, but the direction is clear: God’s love will ultimately prevail, and His children—both the wayward and the resistant—will be restored. The Prodigal Son is a reminder that the story of humanity is still unfolding, and the God who welcomes the younger brother home is the same God who keeps the door open for the older brother, waiting for all to return.

Don’t Reinvent the Liturgical Wheel

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The Mass is the Pinnacle of Western Christian Worship

For 2,000 years, Christians have worked tirelessly to perfect their public worship. Through councils, theological writings, and centuries of refinement, the Catholic Mass has emerged as the summit of that long, collective journey. It is the distilled essence of worship—a refined gemstone that balances theological depth with simplicity.

While the Orthodox Divine Liturgy is undeniably beautiful and rich, the Mass offers something uniquely suited to the West. It is less elaborate but no less profound. It’s a structure that holds within it the wisdom of the early Church, the influence of the Church Fathers, and the contributions of theologians who sought to reflect the glory of God as fully as possible in public worship. And it’s this structure, perfected over millennia, that I believe all Western Christians—Protestants included—should adopt.

The Search for the Perfect Liturgy

Protestants have long struggled with how to structure their public worship. Some traditions opted for simplicity, rejecting formal liturgy altogether, while others sought to create their own forms, borrowing from the past but often doing so inconsistently.

In this search, Protestant churches have wrestled with the question of how to balance spontaneity with structure, emotion with theology. Some communities have embraced a free-flowing style of worship, focused on preaching or praise music, but lacking the rhythm and depth that liturgical forms offer. Others have clung to pieces of liturgy but without the theological grounding and consistency that make it feel complete.

But there is no need to reinvent the wheel. The Mass provides a solution, offering a perfected form of worship that has been shaped by centuries of Christian thought. It addresses every aspect of public worship, from confession to the reading of Scripture to the sacrament of the Eucharist, drawing the congregation into a deeper encounter with the divine.

The Mass as the Pinnacle of Christian Wisdom

What makes the Mass so powerful is that it is not merely a tradition; it is the embodiment of Christian wisdom, distilled and purified over time. Every element, every word, and every action in the Mass has been considered and shaped by the early Church and generations of Christian leaders. It is theologically rich yet accessible, focused on Christ’s sacrifice yet inviting to all believers.

At its core, the Mass centers around the Eucharist, the memorial of Christ’s death and resurrection. It reflects the biblical foundations of Christian worship, particularly the Last Supper, and integrates them into a structure that has endured throughout Christian history. The Mass, in this sense, isn’t just a service; it is a living tradition, a sacred rhythm that draws the worshipper into the heart of God’s redemptive plan.

Over centuries, councils have debated and shaped the Mass into what it is today. It’s not the product of any one person or period but a collaborative refinement that has survived the tests of time, persecution, and cultural shifts. That’s why, for Catholics, the Mass is non-negotiable. It is the weekly, even daily, gathering point of the faithful—an act of worship that is mandated not by custom but by divine inspiration.

Protestantism and the Struggle with Liturgy

In contrast, Protestantism has often been fragmented in its approach to public worship. The Reformation rightly brought many vital theological corrections, but in its break from Catholic tradition, much of the structure that had formed the backbone of Christian worship was lost.

Many Protestant churches, especially in their early days, abandoned liturgy entirely, opting for an unstructured, spontaneous approach. While this can lead to passionate and heartfelt worship, it often lacks the theological grounding that ensures the entire community is drawn into the fullness of Christian teaching and experience.

Other Protestant communities have sought to reintroduce liturgical elements, often borrowing from Anglican, Lutheran, or even Catholic traditions. However, without the centuries of theological and spiritual refinement behind them, these attempts can feel incomplete. The structure might be there, but the depth and meaning that the Mass offers often remain elusive.

A Surprising Discovery: Protestant Hymns in the Mass

When I first went to Mass, I was shocked to hear evangelical hymns—songs I knew from my teenage years, Bible college days, and even my time in Baptist ministry. I didn’t expect that. I thought Catholic music was totally different from what I knew growing up.

But there we were, singing the same songs I’d heard for years. The big difference? The Mass took what I was used to and made it more complete. The prayers were thoughtful, the structure was solid, and everything was deeply rooted in scripture. It felt more intentional than the extemporaneous way we’d do things in evangelical services. There was a depth to it that went beyond anything I had experienced before.

A Path Forward: Adopting the Mass

For Protestants, the Mass offers an ideal model for worship. Not only does it provide a consistent and deeply theological structure, but it also unites the congregation in a common purpose: to worship God through Christ’s sacrifice. Adopting the Mass, or at least its core elements, would not mean forsaking Protestant theology but rather embracing a form of worship that has already stood the test of time.

In many ways, the Mass is a gift that Protestants have overlooked. It is a perfect aggregation of centuries of thought, prayer, and theological development, all aimed at drawing believers closer to God. It provides a framework that ensures the essentials of the faith are present in every service: confession, Scripture, prayer, and the sacrament.

This doesn’t mean every Protestant church must adopt the Catholic Mass in its entirety, but incorporating its rhythm and structure could bring about a richer, more theologically grounded worship experience. The Mass offers a way to ensure that public worship is not just an expression of personal faith but a communal participation in the great story of salvation.

Conclusion: Unity Through Worship

By adopting the Mass or its essential elements, Protestants can rediscover the beauty and depth of liturgical worship. It offers the best of Christian tradition, refined through centuries of wisdom and forged in the fires of theological debate.

The Mass is a reminder that worship is not merely a personal act but a communal one, rooted in the story of Christ’s sacrifice and resurrection. And in embracing the Mass, we find a form of worship that not only honors God but also unites believers across time and space in the grand narrative of redemption.

Karma: A Shadow of a Divine Pattern

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A Partial Glimpse

Karma is one of those ancient ideas that resonates deeply across cultures and eras. It embodies the belief that the universe operates on a moral law—that actions, whether good or bad, inevitably bring consequences. This concept, rooted in Eastern religions, feels like it’s touching on something fundamentally true, even if it doesn’t fully explain why that’s the case.

Yet, when we look closer, karma seems to be a shadow of something greater—a partial, intuitive grasp of a reality that goes beyond what karma itself can offer. It acknowledges a moral order but leaves unanswered questions about its origin and purpose. The Buddha himself, when asked about the nature or origin of the universe, chose not to answer. This reluctance to delve into metaphysical questions leaves karma somewhat ungrounded. It’s a system that works, but without a clear understanding of why it works or who set it in motion.

Here, Christianity steps in, not to dismiss karma, but to fill in the gaps. Christianity provides the metaphysical grounding that karma hints at, revealing a God who is not only just but also deeply invested in the moral development of His creation. In this way, karma can be seen as an ancient glimpse into the truth of a universe governed by a loving Creator, a truth that Christianity fully reveals.

The Four Unanswered Questions of the Buddha

To better understand this connection, it’s important to look at what the Buddha himself chose not to address. In Buddhist tradition, there are four key metaphysical questions that the Buddha intentionally left unanswered. These are often referred to as the avyākata or “unanswered” or “undeclared” questions:

  1. Is the universe eternal, or is it not eternal?
  2. Is the universe infinite, or is it not infinite?
  3. Is the soul the same as the body, or is it different from the body?
  4. Does a liberated person exist after death, or do they not exist, or do they both exist and not exist, or do they neither exist nor not exist?

The Buddha’s decision not to engage with these questions was based on his belief that they do not lead to enlightenment or the cessation of suffering, which was his primary concern. He believed that such speculative inquiries were distractions from the practical path of spiritual practice. Karma, within this framework, operates as a moral principle without needing to be grounded in an understanding of the universe’s origins or ultimate fate.

This approach highlights the limited scope of karma—it functions within a moral framework, but it doesn’t offer a comprehensive metaphysical explanation. This is where Christianity offers something more. While Buddhism leaves these foundational questions unanswered, Christianity steps in to provide answers, grounding the moral order in the nature of God and His creation of the universe.

The Shadow of Divine Truth in Karma

Karma, in its essence, represents a shadow of divine truth—a reflection of a deeper moral order that governs the universe. It’s as if karma grasps at the edges of a divine principle, recognizing that actions have consequences, that there’s a kind of moral cause-and-effect at play. Yet, it stops short of explaining why this order exists or who established it.

The Buddha’s reluctance to answer questions about the origin of the universe underscores this limitation. Karma acknowledges that there’s a law, but it doesn’t tell us much about the lawgiver. It recognizes the effects but remains silent on the source. Christianity, on the other hand, answers these questions by grounding the moral order in the nature of God Himself—a God who is not distant but intimately involved in the lives of His creation.

This perspective is reminiscent of the thoughts of Raimon Panikkar, a Catholic theologian who engaged deeply with both Eastern and Western thought. Panikkar saw karma as part of a cosmic order that, while not fully articulated in Buddhism, pointed toward a truth that Christianity completes. The moral order in karma, according to this view, is not merely mechanical but personal and purposeful, as revealed in the Christian understanding of a God who is both just and loving.

In this light, karma is like a sketch of a truth that Christianity paints in full color. It’s a hint, an echo, of a deeper reality where the moral order is not just a neutral law but an expression of God’s fatherly care. It’s not just about balance; it’s about instruction, growth, and restoration.

Divine Justice: Restorative, Not Retributive

One of the key differences between karma and the Christian understanding of justice lies in the nature of the consequences that follow our actions. Karma is often understood as retributive—a simple cause-and-effect, where good actions bring good results and bad actions bring bad ones. It’s a straightforward system, but it can feel harsh, almost mechanical.

Christianity, however, reveals a different kind of justice, one that is restorative rather than retributive. God’s justice isn’t about a 1:1 punishment for every crime. Instead, it’s about using the consequences of our actions to teach and guide us, much like a father disciplines his children not to punish them, but to help them grow. In this way, divine justice is deeply personal and purposeful. It’s about restoration, about bringing us back into right relationship with God and with each other.

Henri de Lubac, S.J., a Jesuit theologian, emphasized the idea that God’s justice is always intertwined with His mercy. In this view, the consequences of sin are not merely punitive; they are also corrective, designed to lead the sinner back to God. This understanding of justice aligns with the instructive nature of karma but transcends it. God doesn’t just balance the scales; He actively works to heal, restore, and lead His children toward maturity. The consequences of our actions are real, but they are also opportunities for growth, for turning back to God, and for being made whole again.

Here we go beyond the Buddha. Where he found a path leading to what he deemed an empty and dark void, we find that on the other side of the darkness is a loving Father who nurtures and guides his children into being more like him. It’s not a mechanistic ratio but the wise discipline of a parent.

Shadow and Substance

Karma casts a shadow—a recognition that our actions have consequences and that these consequences carry lessons. It suggests a kind of moral education, a system where life itself instructs us through the outcomes of our deeds. But this shadow lacks depth; it acknowledges the lesson but leaves us grasping for the teacher, for the purpose behind the instruction.

Christianity brings this shadow into focus, offering the substance that karma only hints at. In the practice of penance, we find not just a moral correction, but a profound and humble acceptance of divine instruction. Penance is not merely about balancing scales or paying off some spiritual debt; it’s about submitting to God’s will and embracing the lessons He gives us through our experiences. This is where the shadow of karma finds its fulfillment in the substance of Christian teaching.

Penance is a means of transformation, but not just by our own effort. It’s a process of theosis, where we are gradually shaped into the likeness of Christ. We don’t just learn from our mistakes; we take on the divine task of becoming more like God, accepting our trials and corrections as part of His grand design for our sanctification. This is the substance—the reality that karma only glimpses but never fully grasps.

Jean Daniélou, S.J., saw this clearly in his exploration of how God uses the natural consequences of sin to instruct and form us. He recognized that penance is more than a response to wrongdoing; it’s an acceptance of our role in God’s plan, a willingness to be molded by His hands. In this way, penance transforms the shadow into substance, turning mere moral instruction into a divine assignment, a call to take up our cross and follow Christ.

Karma, in its shadowy form, points to a truth about the moral order. But it’s in Christian penance that this truth is fully realized. Here, we don’t just face consequences—we embrace them as part of our journey toward theosis, allowing God to turn our weaknesses into strengths and our sins into opportunities for grace.

Filling in the Shadows with Light

In the end, karma is an ancient concept that touches on a profound truth about the universe: that there is a moral order, and that our actions have consequences. But it’s a truth that remains in the shadows, incomplete and ungrounded. Christianity steps in to fill those shadows with light, revealing a God who is not only just but also deeply loving—a Father who uses the moral order not just to balance the scales, but to instruct, restore, and lead His children toward the fullness of life.

This understanding of divine justice, as restorative and instructive, offers a richer, more complete vision of how the world works—a vision that not only deepens our understanding of karma but also enriches the dialogue between Eastern and Western thought. In the light of Christian revelation, karma’s intuitive grasp of moral truth finds its fulfillment, offering a path not just to balance, but to transformation, renewal, and eternal life.

Daycare and Detached Parenting: A Potentially Hidden Source of Trauma

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The Heartbreaking Reality of Daycare: Are We Failing Our Children?

The other day, I watched a TikTok video that has been on my mind ever since. It showed a typical scene at a daycare center: parents arriving to pick up their children at the end of the day. The moment the toddlers saw their parents, they began to cry. Not just whimper or shed a tear—full-on crying. These weren’t tears of joy or relief; they were tears of overwhelming emotion, likely a mix of stress, sadness, and confusion.

This video captured something that many of us overlook: the deep emotional toll that early separation takes on our children. It made me think hard about the current state of parenting and how, as a society, we might be failing our kids en masse by pushing them into these environments far too early.

A Troubling Trend: Convenience Over Children’s Well-being

This concern isn’t just about daycare. My wife recently had a conversation with a mother who mentioned that she had put her newborn on formula within the first month because it helped the baby sleep better, and by extension, allowed her to sleep better too. Now, I want to be clear: I have nothing against formula. It’s a lifesaver in situations where breastfeeding isn’t an option or when a mother’s health requires it. But this conversation wasn’t about necessity—it was about convenience.

What struck me was the underlying sentiment: that the mother’s comfort was taking precedence over the child’s potential long-term well-being. This mindset, where convenience often overrides the needs of the child, is becoming disturbingly common. And quite frankly, it’s disheartening.

The Evolutionary Argument for Maternal Care

From an evolutionary perspective, children are hardwired to be close to their mothers, especially in the early months and years. For most of human history, mothers and babies have been inseparable. This closeness wasn’t just a cultural norm; it was a biological necessity. Babies needed their mothers for food, protection, and, crucially, for emotional security.

Research supports the idea that early maternal bonding is critical. Studies on attachment theory have shown that infants who are securely attached to their primary caregivers—most often their mothers—tend to be more resilient, emotionally stable, and better equipped to handle stress as they grow. One study by Dr. Alan Sroufe and his colleagues at the University of Minnesota followed children over 30 years and found that those with secure attachments in infancy had better social and emotional outcomes in adulthood compared to those with insecure attachments.

But what happens when we disrupt this natural bond? Evidence suggests that early separation from the mother can lead to elevated cortisol levels (the stress hormone) in infants, which, over time, can negatively impact brain development and emotional regulation. Children who spend long hours in daycare, especially from a very young age, have been found to be more prone to behavioral issues, including aggression and anxiety. The more time infants spend in non-maternal care, the greater the risk of these negative outcomes.

Spiritual Perspective: The Sacred Bond of Motherhood

Motherhood is more than just a biological role—it’s a spiritual calling. Think of the Virgin Mary, a figure who embodies nurturing and sacrifice. Mary’s life was devoted to her son, Jesus, not just in a physical sense but in an emotional and spiritual one. She was there for every step of his early life, offering love, guidance, and prayers.

This sacred bond is something all mothers can strive for. It’s about more than just meeting the physical needs of a child; it’s about creating an environment where a child feels deeply loved and secure. It’s about being present—emotionally, spiritually, and physically. When we prioritize our comfort or societal expectations over this bond, we’re not just shortchanging our children; we’re missing out on a profoundly fulfilling aspect of motherhood.

The Modern Daycare Dilemma

Daycare, especially for very young children, often falls short of meeting these emotional and developmental needs. The environment in most daycares is far from ideal—crowded, impersonal, and at times, downright stressful. While daycares can be necessary, especially for families who need two incomes to get by, we need to be honest about what we’re sacrificing.

Do you believe modern society is healthy? Do you think the kids are alright? Are we all doing mentally well as a society? If not, why in God’s name are we continuing to stay the course of this zeitgeist, doing what everyone else is doing? Why is no one questioning what could possibly be wrong with the most formative times of our lives?

Consider this: We live in an era where rates of anxiety, depression, and other mental health disorders are at an all-time high, even among children. Could it be that our early choices—like separating infants from their mothers, relying on daycares to raise our kids, and prioritizing convenience over connection—are contributing to this crisis?

The Ideal Childhood: A Call for Reconnecting with Parental Roles

So, what does an ideal childhood look like? It’s one where parents, especially mothers, are present during the formative years. It’s a childhood where children don’t have to cry in daycare because they’ve been with the people they need most—those who love them unconditionally. It’s a childhood where small sacrifices by parents, like adjusting work schedules or cutting back on non-essential expenses, lead to a stronger, healthier, and happier child.

I’m not saying that staying home full-time is feasible for every family. But I am saying that we should strive to maximize the time we spend with our children, especially when they are very young. Whether it’s reducing work hours, working from home, or finding other creative solutions, we need to make our children’s well-being a priority.

Questioning Our Motives

Why do we send kids to daycare? Why do we care so much about getting them out of the house and into activities all day? Is it because we genuinely believe it’s better for them—or is it because it’s more convenient for us? Are we, as parents, simply trying to create space in our lives, whether to work more, have some peace, or even just to keep up with societal expectations?

Let’s be honest: a lot of the time, it’s about money. We work longer hours and send our kids to daycare so we can make more money. But why do we need so much money? Often, it’s to buy things we don’t need, to impress people we don’t even like. We’re caught in a cycle of consumption that’s disconnected from what really matters.

But what if we stopped to question this cycle? What if, instead of focusing on getting our kids out of the house, we focused on bringing them closer? What if we prioritized time with our children over making more money, over buying more stuff, over fitting in with what everyone else is doing?

The most important thing we can give our children isn’t found in a store or a paycheck. It’s our presence, our love, and our attention. It’s time spent together, forming bonds that will last a lifetime. So before we send them off to daycare, or sign them up for endless activities, let’s ask ourselves: what are we really working for, and at what cost?