Once upon a time, there was a parent who had many,
many children. They grew and spread across the world, each walking their own
unique path. Some became doctors, teachers, and healers. Others worked with
their hands as plumbers, carpenters, and builders. Some cooked with love in
kitchens, while others cared for homes and families. A few faced deep
struggles—some wandered lost, some battled addiction, and a handful even lost
their way in darkness. They spoke different languages, embraced different
traditions, and carried different stories in their hearts.
Yet every single one was cherished, deeply and
completely. The parent’s love never wavered, never measured, never ran out.
Some of the children stayed close, calling every day
with warm voices (often the daughters). Others reached out through quick
messages and emails (yes, the sons). A few took the time to sit quietly and
write long, heartfelt letters by hand, trusting them to the slow journey of the
mail. Many tried in their own ways to stay connected. Some reached out often,
others less so—but whenever a message arrives, it is received with joy and held
tenderly.
The parent has a vast, open heart, big enough to hold
every child close and gentle enough to fill all the spaces between their words
and their silences.
This is how I imagine God.
I walk the Christian path with an open and grateful
mindset. Yet I find I don’t have the heart to claim I can fully define God on my
own terms. Trying to completely understand God feels a little like an ant
attempting to grasp the wonders of the universe—there is such mystery, such
vastness, and such humble limits to what we can truly know.
I worship in my own quiet way. Perhaps I am one of
the children writing long letters by hand and sending them slowly through the
world. I don’t know. But I believe with all my heart that God hears every voice.
Whether the prayer rises in Hebrew to YHWH, in Arabic to Allah, in the chants
offered to the Buddha, or in the Sikh heart’s call to Waheguru—whether it
arrives as a whispered hope, a tearful cry in the night, a joyful song, or a
silent meditation—each one is received. Each one is cherished.
I like to imagine God’s heart is so big, and the love
so complete, that nothing is lost in translation. Every longing, every offering
of faith, every hurting or hopeful soul is welcomed home.
I know this gentle belief may feel uncomfortable or
even heretical to some of my Christian brothers and sisters, just as many
faithful people throughout history—from the ancient Egyptians to the Celtic
Druids—have felt certain theirs was the only true way. Perhaps one day we will
all understand more clearly.
And I suspect, in the end, we will simply find ourselves gathered together in
the warm, loving arms of a Parent whose love is greater than all our
differences, and whose joy is to bring every child home.
