Have you ever taken a side in an argument and five minutes later thought:

“Yeah... that was stupid.”

"I don't really believe that."

"But since I started here, I better keep going.

Deny, deflect, double down. 

Our first thought gets us there, and pride keeps us there

So Jesus gives us a story about a father who asks his two sons to go work in the vineyard.

The first one says, “Nope. Not going.

But then he thinks about it, changes his mind, and goes.

The second son says, “Absolutely, Dad. I’m on it.”

But he never goes.

And Jesus asks: Which one actually did what the father wanted?

The first one.

And I love this because Jesus offers everyone of us a way out when we get in over our heads:

Your first thought doesn’t have to be your final thought

Your first reaction doesn’t have to define you.

You can reconsider.

You can apologize.

You can change your mind.

You can change your habits.

You can change direction.

In fact, if we’re going to experience the life God wants for us, we HAVE to change.

Because sometimes our first thought comes from fear.

Or anger.

Or ego.

Or prejudice.

Or just plain stubbornness.

But then comes 'the grace of the second thought.'

That little moment when the Spirit whispers:

“Maybe there’s another way.”

And that's a beautiful thing:

God doesn't require us to have gotten it right the first time.

God wants us to be willing to change direction.

So today, give yourself permission to have a second thought, to shift course, to alter direction.

Because change isn't always weakness.

Sometimes... It's the strongest thing you can do. 

When MaryAnn and I wrote our book, one of the things we pointed out is that being a part of the Hyacinth Fellowship means we’re members of a club none of us ever wanted to join.

Nobody woke up one morning and said, "You know what would really add some texture to my life? Accidentally committing unintentional harm."

Nobody applied.

Nobody paid dues.

Nobody put this on their bucket list.

And yet, here we are.

Thirty of us, gathered online – strangers – yet bound together – even closely.

And I want to begin by pointing out something rather extraordinary about that.

You came.

You are here.

Because one of the most powerful urges many of us experience after unintentionally harming someone is exactly the opposite.

We want to disappear.

We want to go home.

We want to close the door.

We want to pull the shades.

We want to get into bed.

We want to avoid the questions.

We want to avoid the looks.

Sometimes we even want to avoid the people who love us most.

And there's a reason for that.

Isolation can feel safe.

After Kenny died at my house, I didn't exactly feel like going out and making new friends.

Kenny was a retired postal worker who had started doing landscaping work. I hired him to rake leaves at my house.

Years earlier, I'd installed a garage door opener on the cheap. The doors were old, heavy, solid oak doors, and the opener lacked safety features that could have been installed.

I chose not to pay for them.

And on November 9, 2013, Kenny came over to rake my leaves.

At some point, he became caught in those doors.

I found him there.

Dead.

I lowered his body onto my driveway.

I prayed over him.

And then came the police.

The medical examiner.

Kenny's family.

The lawsuit.

The questions.

And underneath all of it was another voice.

Mine.

How could you have done this?

How could you have been so cheap?

How could you have been so careless?

A man is dead because of something you did.

The book tells a little of what happened to me afterward. I started smoking. I lost 40 pounds. My marriage eventually ended. I was overwhelmed by guilt, blame and sorrow.

But there was something else happening too.

I was separating.

I was withdrawing.

And I think many of us know that feeling.

Because after we unintentionally harm somebody, there are some very compelling reasons to isolate.

The first is simply this:

We don't think anybody understands.

And frankly, sometimes we're right.

People say things that are intended to be comforting.

"It wasn't your fault."

"It was an accident."

"You've got to forgive yourself."

"You have to move on."

And you think:

You don't understand.

Because I know it was an accident.

I know I didn't wake up intending to hurt somebody.

But somebody is still dead.

Somebody is still injured.

Some family is still grieving.

And I was there.

So we stop talking.

The book describes how people come to Hyacinth meetings having never spoken with another person who has unintentionally killed or seriously injured someone, even when their incident happened decades earlier. Then something remarkable happens when they finally hear somebody else's story:

They realize someone gets it.

There is an enormous difference between someone saying,

"I understand what you're saying,"

and someone saying,

"Me too."

That's part of the reason we're sitting here today.

But there's another reason we isolate.

We are afraid of judgment.

What will people think if they know?

Will they think I'm careless?

Will they think I'm irresponsible?

Will they think I'm dangerous?

Will they think I'm a bad parent?

A bad doctor?

A bad driver?

A bad professional?

A bad person?

So we become editors.

We carefully decide who gets which version of our biography.

This person gets the whole story.

This person gets the abbreviated version.

This person gets nothing.

And eventually managing our story can become exhausting.

Maryann knew this extraordinarily well.

After she struck and killed eight-year-old Brian, she spent years trying to live what she later called a kind of "fake" life. She appeared to be functioning, but inside she carried the unresolved trauma and guilt. Eventually she moved to California and stopped talking about the accident altogether. Even her husband didn't know.

For roughly 20 years, there was the public Maryann and the hidden Maryann.

Then something changed.

She began therapy.

She began talking.

Eventually she told her story publicly.

And people started finding her.

People who had their own stories.

People who had been hiding too.

And she discovered something remarkable: when she stopped hiding, she had more energy to give to the world.

Eventually that became Accidental Impacts.

And eventually that became the Hyacinth Fellowship.

Think about that.

An organization dedicated to overcoming isolation exists because a woman who had isolated herself for decades finally decided to tell somebody what happened.

That's quite a legacy.

And it points toward something I think we need to understand.

Isolation makes promises it cannot keep.

Isolation says:

I'll protect you.

I'll keep you from judgment.

I'll keep you from embarrassment.

I'll keep you from having to explain.

I'll keep you from being hurt.

And sometimes, particularly early in trauma, we genuinely do need solitude.

There is nothing wrong with being alone.

There is nothing wrong with turning off your phone.

There is nothing wrong with saying, "I can't talk about this today."

There is nothing wrong with needing quiet.

Solitude and isolation are not the same thing.

Solitude can restore us.

Isolation slowly disconnects us.

Solitude says, "I need some time."

Isolation says, "I don't need anybody."

Or worse:

"Nobody should have to deal with me."

And worst of all:

"I don't deserve anybody."

That's when isolation becomes dangerous.

Because now we aren't merely protecting ourselves from other people's judgment.

We are punishing ourselves.

The book calls this part of moral injury.

Guilt says:

I did something terrible.

Shame makes a subtle but devastating edit:

I am terrible.

And those two sentences lead us in very different directions.

Guilt can lead us toward responsibility.

Toward apology.

Toward restitution.

Toward change.

Toward compassionate accountability.

Shame tends to send us somewhere else.

Into hiding.

The book puts it very plainly: guilt can motivate action and amends, while shame makes us want to run away and hide. Social withdrawal and isolation can themselves become symptoms of moral injury.

And I think this is one of the great traps for people like us.

We begin to confuse suffering with accountability.

We think:

If I feel bad enough, I'm honoring the person who was harmed.

If I never enjoy myself again, I'm demonstrating remorse.

If I don't let anybody love me, I'm paying some portion of the debt.

If I punish myself long enough, perhaps the universe will somehow become balanced again.

But it doesn't work.

My suffering cannot bring Kenny back.

Maryann's suffering could not bring Brian back.

Your suffering cannot undo whatever brought you into this Fellowship.

The book says that plainly too. Self-punishment cannot resurrect the person who died or change the circumstances of the incident. What can change is what we do with the life still entrusted to us.

And that's where overcoming isolation becomes more than a mental-health technique.

It becomes an act of courage.

Maybe even an act of love.

Because healing requires allowing ourselves to become connected again.

Not to everybody.

I want to emphasize that.

Overcoming isolation does not mean telling everybody everything.

You do not owe your story to strangers.

You don't have to put it on Facebook.

You don't have to stand up at Thanksgiving and say, "Before we carve the turkey, I'd like to tell everyone about the worst day of my life."

Please don't.

Your story is yours.

Discernment matters.

Privacy matters.

And in some circumstances, legal considerations matter enormously.

But privacy and secrecy aren't quite the same thing.

Privacy says:

"I choose carefully who gets access to this tender part of me."

Secrecy says:

"If anybody really knew me, they would reject me."

That's the lie we have to challenge.

And we challenge it one relationship at a time.

In the book we call one of the first responses after trauma simply:

Phone a friend.

Not 30 friends.

One.

Find somebody who can listen compassionately, think clearly, disagree respectfully, and help you make decisions when your own thinking isn't particularly reliable.

That's manageable.

Who is your one?

Who is the person you can call and say:

"I'm having a bad day."

"I'm thinking about it again."

"November 9 is coming."

"I drove past the place."

"I saw something on television."

"I had the dream again."

"I don't need you to fix anything. I just don't want to be alone with this."

Sometimes overcoming isolation is that small.

A phone call.

A cup of coffee.

A walk.

Sitting on somebody's porch.

Watching a stupid television show together.

The book actually recommends exactly this kind of ordinary human contact after trauma: have somebody come over, share a meal, watch television, take a walk.

There's something beautiful about that.

Healing doesn't always look dramatic.

Sometimes healing looks like pizza.

Sometimes healing looks like somebody sitting beside you saying nothing particularly profound.

Sometimes healing looks like a friend texting:

"You up?"

And you answering:

"Yep."

And that is enough.

But there's another level.

We need people who don't merely love us.

We need some people who understand us.

That's peer support.

One person quoted in the book said that more than ten years after their accident, they had never spoken to anyone who'd been through anything similar until finding this community. Their response was beautifully simple: talking with someone who truly understood meant they didn't feel so alone anymore.

That is why Hyacinth matters.

It's why this you coming to this meeting matters.

It's why the person sitting two zoom boxes away from you matters.

Because there are things we don't have to explain here.

There are sentences we can leave unfinished.

There are emotions we don't have to justify.

There are contradictions we don't have to resolve.

"I know it wasn't intentional, but..."

We understand.

"Everyone says it wasn't my fault, but..."

We understand.

"I was having a perfectly good day and suddenly..."

We understand.

"I don't think I deserve to be happy because..."

We understand.

There is tremendous healing in those two words:

We understand.

And there is something else I've learned.

Community doesn't only heal us because other people help us.

Community heals us because eventually we get to help other people.

This may be one of the biggest surprises of the whole journey.

At first we come into community because we need something.

We need somebody to listen.

We need reassurance.

We need guidance.

We need someone who has survived what we're going through.

But then one day somebody new walks through the door.

And they're shattered.

They're two weeks out.

Or six months.

Or maybe they've been carrying it for 35 years.

And they tell their story.

And suddenly you realize:

I know something that might help this person.

I have something to give.

And that changes us.

Because shame says:

You are a burden.

Community says:

You have something to contribute.

Shame says:

You don't belong.

Community says:

Pull up a chair.

Shame says:

Your worst moment disqualifies you.

Community says:

Your worst moment may have given you a compassion somebody desperately needs.

The book describes moral repair as involving both receiving support and contributing to community through shared activities, service and helping create safer, more caring communities. It specifically says this requires fighting the tendency to withdraw.

That's a profound reversal.

We begin thinking:

I need to hide because of what happened.

And eventually we may discover:

Because of what happened, I have something important to offer.

Not because the tragedy was good.

It wasn't.

Not because everything happens for a reason.

I'm not convinced it does.

Not because we needed this to happen in order to become better people.

We didn't.

We would gladly give every insight back if we could undo what happened.

But we can't.

So the question becomes:

What will I do with the life I have now?

That's what Maryann did.

She couldn't bring Brian back.

But she could make sure the next person didn't have to spend 25 years thinking they were the only person on earth who understood this experience.

And that's what I'm trying to do with Kenny.

I cannot bring Kenny back.

I cannot rewrite November 9, 2013.

Believe me, if the universe offered rewrites, I'd be first in line.

I'd buy every safety device.

I'd replace the doors.

I'd do a hundred things differently.

But that day is not available for editing.

This day is.

And that's one of the most important discoveries I've made.

We cannot change the day that brought us into the Hyacinth Fellowship.

But we can change what happens today.

Today I can make the phone call.

Today I can go to therapy.

Today I can tell somebody I'm struggling.

Today I can come to the meeting when I'd rather stay home.

Today I can sit beside someone else who is hurting.

Today I can listen.

Today I can serve.

Today I can laugh without immediately punishing myself for laughing.

Today I can allow somebody to love me.

Today I can allow myself to belong.

And eventually, perhaps, something else happens.

We begin to build a life that is not centered entirely around what happened.

The book calls part of this Legacy-Centered Growth.

It isn't about making up for what happened. We can't.

It's about honoring those who were harmed by using the life we still have to put something good into the world. And in doing that, we develop connections, discover new strengths, and actively combat the tendency to withdraw, isolate, ruminate and hide.

And that brings me back to us.

Look around.

Seriously.

Take a second and look around at the names and faces here.

This is what overcoming isolation looks like.

Not curing everything.

Not forgetting.

Not pretending.

Not absolving ourselves of responsibility.

Not magically becoming the people we were before.

This.

Thirty people on zoom, who could be watching football.

Thirty people carrying stories most of the world doesn't quite know what to do with.

Thirty people saying, simply by showing up:

I will not carry this entirely by myself anymore.

And perhaps even more importantly:

I will help you carry yours.

That is Fellowship.

And I think Maryann understood something about that long before many of us did.

The hyacinth became our symbol because in the ancient story, something beautiful grows from the place where blood has fallen. In the book we describe it as an image of hope after harm, beauty emerging from suffering.

Not beauty instead of suffering.

Beauty from the same ground.

That's different.

We don't erase what happened.

We don't pave over it.

We don't pretend the ground was never broken.

We plant there.

And sometimes something grows.

A friendship.

A support group.

A book.

A nonprofit.

A retreat in Michigan.

A monthly zoom call.

Maybe even a life we once thought we'd forfeited.

So when that urge to isolate comes, and it will, I hope we can learn to recognize the voice.

"You shouldn't go."

"Nobody understands."

"You don't belong."

"You'll make everybody uncomfortable."

"You don't deserve to enjoy yourself."

"You should stay home."

And maybe we don't have to defeat that voice with some enormous act of courage.

Maybe we simply answer:

I'm going anyway.

I'll make the call anyway.

I'll take the walk anyway.

I'll tell my therapist anyway.

I'll go to the meeting anyway.

I'll sit at the table anyway.

I'll let somebody love me anyway.

Because isolation tells us that healing happens when we finally become strong enough to carry this alone.

Hyacinth teaches us something very different.

Healing begins when we discover we don't have to.

And if you forget that tomorrow, or next month, or on the anniversary, or on some completely ordinary Tuesday when the memory suddenly comes roaring back...

remember this zoom room.

Remember these faces.

Remember that there are people here who know something about the road you've traveled.

And remember the thing we have been trying to tell people from the very beginning:

You are more than the worst thing that has ever happened through you.

You still belong.

You still have something to give.

And you do not have to walk home alone.

•  When you feel the urge to isolate, what does that look like for you? Do you stay home, stop returning calls, sleep, keep busy, avoid certain people, or something else?

•  How do you tell the difference between healthy solitude and unhealthy isolation? What are the warning signs that you’ve crossed that line?

•  What is one small act of connection you could choose when you next feel yourself withdrawing? A phone call? A text? A meeting? Coffee with someone? Asking for help? Simply saying, “I’m having a hard day”?

•  What does isolation promise you? What feels safer or easier about withdrawing from other people? 

•  Who has been a “safe person” for you? What did that person do, or not do, that made it possible for you to let them into your story? 

•  Have you ever experienced the power of “me too”? What was it like to meet someone who understood your experience without requiring a long explanation? 

So you're driving home from work on the freeway when somebody merges in and blatant cuts you off.

As the observer you're like - What a selfish, unsafe driver that is! 

Now switch roles, and you're acting like the guy who's merging, stressed out to get home on time. Not paying attention to the fact that the lane is ending and before you know it you have no choice and in your head you say, "Sorry dude!" as you cut off the guy in back of you. 

This is called actor/observer syndrome, and we all do it and Jesus talks about it on Sunday with that famous Bible story about the guys who work 8 hours and earn a day's wage, and then the guy who works 1 hour and earns the same pay.

From an observer's point of view this is blatantly unfair, we worked longer, we deserve more pay!

But from the actor's point of view, which is where Jesus always defaults, he sees that this worker who only worked an hour, has to go home and feed the same mouths, clothe the same kids, pay the same rent that those working 8 hours have to pay 

And this is why Jesus gives that worker the same wage as the other workers. 

Jesus always operates like the actor, not the observer. 

The observer is law-abiding, cold-hearted and stern about the quid pro quo.

The actor has compassion, has mercy, and empathy.

This Is the Christian God, one who will always put mercy over judgment, forgiveness over condemnation, compassion over the quid pro quo. 

Go now, and do likewise. 

Jesus said, “Love your neighbor.”

Here in Michigan, that’s not a metaphor.

It’s Canada.

This week, Canada imposed tariffs on $20 billion in American goods, responding to new American tariffs and threats.

And who will pay?

Canadian workers.

Michigan workers.

Farmers, manufacturers, small businesses—and all of us when prices rise.

Strong nations should not need to humiliate their friends.

Yet we’ve threatened Canadian industries, joked about making Canada our 51st state, and even renamed Lake Ontario—as if changing a map proves anything.

In Sunday's gospel Jesus tells Peter about a man who receives extraordinary mercy, then turns around, grabs his neighbor by the throat, and demands payment.

It's about judgement and forgiveness.

America and Canada have shared generations of trade, friendship, sacrifice, and peace. We will disagree. Friends do.

But Jesus warns us what happens when every disagreement becomes a debt to collect, every neighbor becomes an adversary, and power becomes permission to humiliate.

America and Canada will certainly disagree.

But disagreements between friends belong at a negotiating table—not in threats, insults, and trade wars that ordinary families are left to finance.

Strong nations do not need to belittle their friends.

They keep talking.

They honor their commitments.

And they remember how much they have received.

Because mercy is not weakness.

It is how neighbors remain neighbor

Love never means looking the other way.

This week we learned that Michigan police have referred immigrants to ICE hundreds of times, sometimes after encounters that began with a cracked windshield, jaywalking, a broken-down car, or simply an officer's suspicion.

Now, you may say: “They're just enforcing the law.” Fair enough.

But Christians have never believed that legality ends the moral conversation.

That's why we pray outside the Southfield ICE office every week - to ask the bigger question:

Are people being treated justly?

In Matthew 18, Jesus says when something is wrong, we don't ignore it.

We speak up.

We bring others with us.

We hold people and institutions accountable.

And we do it without hatred.

Because Christian love isn't silence.

And it isn't cruelty.

Christian love keeps asking whether our laws, our institutions, and our own actions are treating our neighbors as people God loves.

Years ago, when we remodeled our bathroom, my three-year-old daughter asked if she could help me paint.

So I handed her the paintbrush.

She did exactly what you’d expect. 

Paint dripped everywhere. Random brushstrokes. X’s and O’s on the wall that you can still see today.

Then she asked if she could finish the job.

I took the paintbrush back.

I thought about that when I read Sunday’s Gospel.

Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do you say that I am?”

Peter nails it: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

And then Jesus says something strange:

Don’t tell anybody.

Jesus takes the paintbrush back.

Because Peter has the right answer, but he doesn’t yet understand what the answer means.

Peter thinks “Messiah” means power, victory, liberation.

But Jesus is about to teach him that Messiah means a cross. Sacrifice. Suffering. Love.

Peter knows the word.

He just doesn’t know how to paint with it yet.

And, truthfully, I find something comforting in that.

Because I’ve been following Jesus for a long time, and I’m still discovering places where the Jesus I thought I knew isn’t quite the Jesus I meet in the Gospels.

This is part of following him.

We stay close. We keep listening. We keep learning. And little by little, Jesus fills in the picture.

Maybe faith isn’t about finally getting Jesus all figured out.

Maybe it’s about staying close enough to keep discovering who he is. And trusting that, along the way, he’ll keep teaching us how to paint.

I know it sounds blasphemous to say that Jesus screwed up...

But part of being human is being imperfect.

So what did Jesus do when he messed up?

One time he was lecturing on talking, explaining that our words flow directly from our intentions, so that we are held morally accountable for what we say.

Then comes this non-jewish person asking Jesus for healing. He coldly dismisses her, says that his mission is only for his people, and calls her a dog. 

But the woman won't let go and throws a counter punch, saying even the dogs get to eat crumbs from the table, waking Jesus up to the fact that his mission isn't just for Jews, but for everybody.

I imagine everybody in the room clammed up, and stared at Jesus.

Because Woke Jesus now had a decision.

Will he double down on his superiority, continue to insult the woman and blow her off?

Or will he back down, admit his mistake, and make right? 

As we know, Jesus chooses door number two.

He commends the woman for standing up to him, and gives her the healing she wanted. 

In these days of deflect and deny, ignore and move on, when faced with a mistake, Jesus gives us that timeless lesson of humility. 

Whatever mistake you're facing today, own up to it, admit you were wrong, and make it right. 

We all screw up, we're all human, but truth is the way of Jesus, and if God can back down and say he's sorry, we can too. 

I am as mad as anyone when I see malevolent governments, movements, and people, who oppress, persecute, and kill in order to hoard, dominate, or selfishly enrich.

And I want to fight - but I have to be wise - and faithful.

The idea that we can eradicate "evil" by destroying a specific person or a nation using violence is a deeply ingrained human impulse, but it relies on a fundamental misunderstanding of what evil actually is. 

History and psychology show us that treating evil as if it were a physical object, person, or a localized disease that can be excised with a scalpel consistently fails.

The primary flaw in trying to "kill" evil is a category mistake. We treat evil as an entity—a physical thing that resides in certain "bad" people. But evil is not a substance; it is a set of behaviors, choices, and systems - and one way or another it gets into us all.

What to do? This is one lesson from Sunday's gospel about an enemy who sews weeds alongside a gardener's good crop. 

The interesting advice from the gardener is not to pull out the bad weeds, because in doing so, the good plants will be gone too. Instead we're told to wait. 

The gardener understands that the good and the bad make up one crop - and the answer is patience. Patience to do the things that have historically been successful at combatting evil:

Build robust institutions: Building legal systems, human rights frameworks, and democratic checks that prevent power from being concentrated and abused.

Practice empathy and truth: Facing historical harms honestly (like truth and reconciliation commissions) rather than burying them under fresh violence.

Address material scarcity: Reducing the desperation, poverty, and isolation that make communities vulnerable to demagogues and radicalization.

Stopping an active perpetrator of violence is sometimes a necessary act of immediate defense. But confusing containment with eradication is the tragic error of human history. To permanently weaken evil, we have to change the soil so its seeds can no longer take root. Something us gardeners can do.

Feeling a little disconnected from our nation’s 250th birthday this year? Even a bit... nonchalant?

Do yourself a favor: Talk to an immigrant.

New Americans see things many of us take for granted. And it’s not just the landscapes or the prosperity. They see the true greatness of this country.

They see how we welcome the tired and the weary. How we show up for the sick, the elderly, and the vulnerable. They see a nation that shares its wealth with communities facing war, famine, and natural disasters.

That’s exactly why we hold our weekly prayer vigils. To remind ourselves how to be welcoming. Because real greatness isn’t built on pride, wealth, or luck.

Greatness lives in humility. It’s a willingness to serve others as much as we serve ourselves. It echoes that timeless call: "Come to me, all who are weary, and I will give you rest."

New Americans don't just need us. We need them. They remind us of the beauty of our last 250 years, and they give us hope for the next 250.

The spiritual life isn't so much about ability as it is availability. 

This Sunday we hear the famous story of Abraham's sacrifice of Isaac, and a camping trip, they'll never forget...

In that passage we will hear Abraham utter a Hebrew word, hineni, not once, or twice, but three times. It means, here I am. 

Abraham, the spiritual founder of three great world religions, did not make a name for himself as an academic theologian or ruler of vast armies, but by simply showing up.

When God called him, when his son called him, when the angel called him, Abraham said here I am. 

The spiritual life, then, begins and ends with presence. Listening. Obeying. Getting up. Moving out. It starts as we get started.

How am I present? And how might I say, here I am?

God gives ability that begins with availability.