The Child's Wound, The Man's Sin

Sometimes when I’m watching a story unfold — whether in a book, a show, or even in real life — I find myself wondering how a person becomes the way they are. Not in a way that excuses cruelty or minimizes the harm people cause, but in a way that tries to understand the long road that led them there. It’s easy to look at someone who does terrible things and say, “They’re just evil.” It’s much harder to imagine the child they once were, the one who needed love and never received it, the one who learned early that the world was not safe and that tenderness only led to pain. I don’t believe that trauma erases responsibility, but I do believe it shapes the soul in ways we don’t always see.

There’s a particular kind of tragedy in imagining a person who once had a small spark of goodness — a moment of connection, a fragile friendship, a glimpse of belonging — only to have it crushed before it had a chance to grow. When I picture that, I don’t feel sympathy for the harm they later cause, but I do feel grief for the child who never learned another way to live. It reminds me that brokenness often begins long before the choices we judge. Some wounds happen so early that the person doesn’t even remember them, yet they spend their whole lives reacting to the echo of that pain. They run from shame they can’t name, from fear they can’t articulate, from a sense of worthlessness that settled into their bones before they had words.

As a Christian, I hold this tension carefully. Scripture is clear that people are accountable for their actions and called to repentance. But Scripture is also clear that Jesus sees deeper than we do. He sees the wound behind the sin, the loneliness behind the anger, the fear behind the cruelty. When He said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” He wasn’t excusing evil. He was acknowledging the blindness and brokenness that often drive it. He was looking at the whole story, not just the moment of failure.

I’m not a theologian, and I don’t pretend to have all the answers. But I do believe that the heart of Christ is big enough to hold both justice and compassion. I believe He can condemn the wrong while still grieving the shattered places that helped shape it. And I believe that one day, in ways we can’t yet imagine, He will restore what was broken — not by erasing responsibility, but by healing the wounds that twisted the soul in the first place. That hope doesn’t make evil less evil, but it does remind me that no one is beyond the reach of the One who sees every hidden hurt.

Remembering Who We Were Made to Be

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the way we relate to one another, especially when I watch the news and see yet another conflict, another war, another reminder of how easily humans slip into cycles of fear and retribution. It strikes me how deeply our world is built on competition—on money, on power, on the belief that everyone is out to secure their own interests before someone else does. We’re told this is normal, even admirable. We’re told that capitalism rewards hard work, that self‑interest is rational, that looking out for yourself is simply how the world works. And maybe that’s true in a practical sense, but at a heart level, something in me resists it. Something in me knows we weren’t made for this constant guarding and grasping.

As a Christian, I can’t help but feel that this tension comes from the gap between who God created us to be and who we’ve learned to become. If we’re made in His image, then we’re made for connection, generosity, and mutual care. We’re made to see each other not as rivals or threats but as collaborators—people meant to build and support one another. And when I look at the life of Jesus, I see that vision lived out in a way that still disarms me. He moved through the world without fear, without defensiveness, without the instinct to protect His own interests. He gave freely, healed freely, loved freely. He treated people as brothers and sisters, not as obstacles or opponents. His life wasn’t transactional; it was relational in the purest sense. And something in me recognizes that as the truest expression of what humanity was meant to be.

And yet, we don’t live this way. Not consistently. Not collectively. We’re afraid—afraid of being taken advantage of, afraid of being the only one who chooses softness in a hard world, afraid that if we don’t protect ourselves, no one else will. So we armor up. We compete. We measure our worth in productivity and profit. We convince ourselves that generosity is naïve and vulnerability is dangerous. The desire for power, I think, often grows out of this fear. It’s not always about domination; sometimes it’s simply about control, about creating a sense of safety in a world that feels unpredictable. Self‑interest becomes a shield, a way of ensuring we won’t be left behind or left exposed.

But I keep coming back to this quiet truth: we already know how to be good to each other. We already know how to live in a way that honors the image of God in ourselves and in others. We already know the kind of life Jesus modeled—one rooted in love, mercy, and a willingness to see the humanity in every person. We just don’t trust it. We don’t trust that kindness will protect us. We don’t trust that generosity won’t cost us. We don’t trust that collaboration is stronger than competition. And so we live at odds with our own hearts, choosing fear over the very thing we were created for.

I don’t have solutions or systems to propose. I’m not trying to redesign society or preach a new ideology. I’m just noticing the ache of it—the distance between what we see in the world and what we sense deep inside ourselves. And I find myself wondering what life would look like if we trusted that inner truth a little more. If we believed that helping someone simply because we can is enough. If we saw each other as brothers and sisters rather than obstacles or opponents. If we allowed ourselves to imagine that the way of Jesus wasn’t naïve after all, but the most real and human way to live.

Maybe the world wouldn’t change overnight. But maybe we would. And maybe that would be enough to start something different.

The Faith We Remember

There are moments when faith feels clear — almost startlingly so, when the world slows down just enough for us to see how deeply we need goodness, mercy, and the kind of peace Jesus talked about. In those moments, faith feels simple. Clean. Almost obvious.

But then there’s the rest of life — the headlines, the culture wars, the shouting matches disguised as sermons. The nationalism, the legalism, the fear‑driven rhetoric that claims to speak for God but sounds nothing like Him. It can be jarring and confusing, and it can make a person wonder where their faith actually lives.

For many people, the struggle isn’t disbelief but disorientation. They aren’t doubting Jesus — they’re doubting the versions of Christianity that have wrapped Him in politics, anger, and tribal identity. They’re trying to separate the quiet truth from the loud distortions. And that’s not a crisis of faith, but a crisis of representation — and that’s a big difference.

Perhaps there’s a different way to think about faith; less like a doctrine and more like a memory. Think of someone you loved deeply — a grandparent, a mentor, a friend — someone whose presence shaped you. You may not see them face‑to‑face anymore, but their love is still unmistakable. You don’t question it. You don’t debate it. You don’t need to defend it. You just know it.

Faith can be like that — not loud or argumentative, not wrapped in culture‑war armor, but remembered, recognized, trusted. A quiet knowing that sits deeper than the noise around it.

This is the kind of faith that grows from love rather than fear, from presence rather than pressure. It’s the faith that remembers who God is before remembering what people have said about Him. It’s the faith that trusts the character of Jesus more than the volume of His followers.

On the other hand, when faith is framed by fear, it shrinks. When it’s framed by politics, it distorts. When it’s framed by shame, it suffocates. But when it’s framed by love — the kind of love that is patient, kind, and not self‑seeking — something inside us relaxes. Something unclenches. Something remembers.

And suddenly faith doesn’t feel lost, but familiar and close. Maybe the faith people long for isn’t gone; maybe it’s just quieter than the voices that claim to speak for it. Maybe it’s the faith that shows up in moments of clarity, compassion, and longing for peace — the faith that whispers instead of shouts, the faith that feels like remembering someone who loved you well.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s the faith worth holding onto.

If you’ve felt this same pull between the quiet faith you cherish and the louder versions that distort it, you’re not alone. I’d love to hear how you’ve made sense of it in your own life — your perspective could help someone else feel a little less isolated.

Andrew Peterson, Warriors Against the Storm, For King and Country

Andrew Peterson

I recently discovered singer/ songwriter/ novelist Andrew Peterson, and have greatly enjoyed beginning to listen to his music and having the chance to become familiar with his story and work. I have found that he is the type of artist that I have always wanted to find, where his music is Jesus centered and full of a sense of authenticity that connects with the listener and declares a sense of awe of God and helps you in your walk with God. Andrew puts to words in such a beautiful way a lot of what I feel deep inside, and I am sure many of his other listeners feel the same way.

Not only does his music point so beautifully to Jesus, but he is also a novelist that writes amazing fiction! I have not gotten the chance to read a physical copy of Andrew's books yet, but at the time of this writing, each night Andrew has been reading sections of his novels on his YouTube channel! It has been such an encouragement for me to tune in every night and listen to him read his books! I'd highly recommend you check it out!

Warriors Against the Storm

I am also excited to make mention of a book I was recently made aware of that was written for a great cause. The book is Warriors Against the Storm, and it is an anthology of twenty fantasy and science-fiction short stories, with all proceeds going to help author Mary Weber and her family as they go through a tough time. (I’ll leave a link below if you wish to find out more.)

If you are a fan of fantasy and science-fiction short stories and want to help somebody out at the same time, perhaps this is a book that would interest you. If you’re interested in checking out Warriors Against the Storm, you can find it right here on Amazon.

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I also wanted to share a Christmas song released to YouTube by a great band that I have featured here before: For King and Country. They are releasing a Christmas album this year, and this was the first song that they released. It was such a blessing listening to this, and if it’s not too early to listen to a Christmas song for you, perhaps you’d like to listen to it too! I hope that it is an encouragement to you!

Related links:

Mary Weber GoFundMe page

Warriors Against The Storm Amazon page

Andrew Peterson's website and YouTube channel.