When I was young, I was a troubled teen—to some degree, at least. I mean, I don't want to exaggerate. There were others who were vastly more troubled than I and certainly had things a lot worse. I had a stable family, middle class lifestyle, and pretty inconsequntial small town upbringing in the Midwest. Even so, I had problems: I believed a lot of nonsense, developed some pretty foul habits, struggled with depression and loneliness, put many bad substances (and worse ideas) into my body, committed misdeeds, and eventually became nihilistic. I made many poor decisions, the ramifications of which I continue to work out to this day.
There were bright spots, though, especially manifest through people who demonstrated genuine compassion for me in my situation.
One time, my high school art teacher Mr. Fisher could see I was troubled, but also that I had a lot of natural creativity. He was a jazz pianist on the weekends and offered to give me piano lessons for free after school. He would take me down to one of the piano studios off the band room after school and stay after for a half hour free of charge teaching me piano. He asked nothing from me. He just wanted to show me something wholesome and nurture my creative side in hopes it would brighten my life.
During those years I knew a girl who had a mom named Jeanne. Jeanne was an old Greek lady, a single mother, who had a nice house outside of town. Jeanne loved her daughter's friends. She basicaly handed the entire basement of her house over to us. We were allowed to come and go as we pleased, with or without invitation, at any time of the day or night. Jeanne wanted us to have a place to go that was safe and welcoming. As I said, many I knew were in a worse place than I; some didn't even survive those years. Jeanne knew we were all in tough spots and graciously gave half her house over to us. We spent so much time there. Hung out there. Slept there. Built relationships there. And during the days when Jeanne was home from work, we'd go upstairs and have coffee with her and bullshit about life. She was never patronizing or moralizing towards us. She treated us like real people, listened to us, and showed us compassion. And she kept a full jar of Oreos I always had my hand in. We all called her our Greek Mama and loved her dearly. How nice it was to have that spot. Later, after we all grew up and her basement was finally renovated, I was gifted a mirror that used to hang down there. It's still hanging in my dining room to this day.
I remember my my senior year, my psychology teacher Dr. Turner could also see I was struggling. He was an older gentleman who'd been teaching probably since the 1950s and had seen thousands of teens come and go over his career. One fall he casually invited me to come to church on Thanksgiving with him (this was back when public school teachers could openly invite people to come to their church without fear of professional consequences). I was non-committal, but then on Thanksgiving Day I and a friend showed up at his church—a Church of the Nazarene—dressed in scummy punk rock clothes looking like trash. Dr. Turner was sitting in the pew in a polyester suit. He turned his head, saw us, and just smiled. He and his wife scooted over and made room. I don't remember anything about the service, but I still remember his smile when he saw me.
When I was around 19 years old I was at my worst in terms of depression, substance abuse, and nihilism. Man, I looked rough. But there was this elderly Presbyterian couple in town who used to take in troubled teens. Similar to Jeanne mentioned above, they'd just let my friends and I come in and out of their home. Duane was the husband's name. We'd stay up late at his kitchen table, smoking cigarettes and talking about life. I was on the cusp of believing, but not quite yet. Duane would feed us, give us cigarettes, and tell us about Jesus. He invited us to church, as well, but never pressured me. It was an open invitation; a few times I went, and he and his wife were very happy to see me there.
After I became a Christian, I started going to the Charismatic Episcopal Church, which is basically like if Anglicans spoke in tongues. The parish was this tiny, stuffy historic chapel, mainly attended by well-to-do, impeccably dressed Boomers who were stodgy in all other respects but wanted to let loose and speak in tongues for 15 minutes a week. I stood out like a sore thumb! I came into that little chapel with long hippie hair, combat boots, plaid punk rock pants, an ovesized black hoodie filled with clothespins and a gigantic red fabric cross pinned to the back. Despite the fact that I looked like a freak, the families of this little congregation welcomed me wholesomely. They talked to me, listened to me, invited me to their homes for fellowship, and showed me every courtesy I could have wished for. I was treated as a full member of the community in no respect different to the most distingushed or best dressed among them.
Later, when I'd cleaned up a bit and was going through RCIA as a candidate for confirmation in the Catholic Church, I had an RCIA Director named Michael. This poor guy. I plagued him weekly with all manner of questions on every subject imaginable. Could a robot perform a valid baptism? Could aliens become Christians? Stuff like that. I asked so many questions, and Michael would just listen patiently, think on it, then the next week he'd return with very well-written responses explaining the germane issues and referencing the appropriate Church documents. He always tooks my questions seriously, no matter how dumb they were. Michael could see I was intellectually wrestling and he wanted to bring me clarity. Finally, one week, he just handed me a Catechism of the Catholic Church—the old first edition with the tan cover—and signed it with the inscription, "May this book help explain to you the teachings of the Catholic Church." I still have it to this day.
You know what all these people have in common? Simply this—they were on my side. They were for me. At any point along this journey, any one of them could have sharply criticized many aspects of my life; I'm sure they did privately, for there was much to criticize. But my faults notwithstanding, they were always "for" me. Always wanting to bless me, help me, elevate me, make me do better. They were under no illusions about where I was, but they were always willing to show me a light on the journey. And in each case their help involved some type of condescension, a gesture of going beyond what was strictly necessary or even expected in order to reach me where I needed to be reached.
This, to me, is the essence of friendship—being "for" someone. It certainly does not mean you will agree with everything your friend does, nor that you should fail to call them out when they err. But it does mean that a friend's disposition is unambiguously "for" their companion. In all a friend does, in all his interactions, whatever is done is done from goodwill towards the other.
How consoling it is to know that this is how God views us. God is for us, not against us (cf. Rom. 8:31). Is this not what God demonstrated when He became a child in Bethlehem? What greater condescension could there be than for the Creator of the cosmos to be born in the company of farm animals, enfleshed in a mortal frame and subject to all the limitations of humanity? The world can be cold and life is hard. But God has broken through the darkness and reached out His hand. He has entered our mortal existence and taken on our sufferings, for in doing so He wishes us to know that He, too, is on "our side," more on our side than any human friend or kinsman, as He alone knows us at our innermost, as we are. He knows our situation better than we know it ourselves. And yet, He is still for us. He is for you. And that will never ever change, "for with him there is no variation or shadow due to change" (Jas. 1:17).
This Christmas, please remember that God is for you. Whatever happens, whatever befalls us in 2026, He is always working for your good—whether you recognize it or not, whether your conception of the "good" is the same as His or not, whether you are failing in various respects or not. It doesn't matter. The Incarnation is God's definitive gesture of good will towards mankind, and your sins, failings, and ignorance are not greater than the Incarnation.
Homo factus est
One time, my high school art teacher Mr. Fisher could see I was troubled, but also that I had a lot of natural creativity. He was a jazz pianist on the weekends and offered to give me piano lessons for free after school. He would take me down to one of the piano studios off the band room after school and stay after for a half hour free of charge teaching me piano. He asked nothing from me. He just wanted to show me something wholesome and nurture my creative side in hopes it would brighten my life.
During those years I knew a girl who had a mom named Jeanne. Jeanne was an old Greek lady, a single mother, who had a nice house outside of town. Jeanne loved her daughter's friends. She basicaly handed the entire basement of her house over to us. We were allowed to come and go as we pleased, with or without invitation, at any time of the day or night. Jeanne wanted us to have a place to go that was safe and welcoming. As I said, many I knew were in a worse place than I; some didn't even survive those years. Jeanne knew we were all in tough spots and graciously gave half her house over to us. We spent so much time there. Hung out there. Slept there. Built relationships there. And during the days when Jeanne was home from work, we'd go upstairs and have coffee with her and bullshit about life. She was never patronizing or moralizing towards us. She treated us like real people, listened to us, and showed us compassion. And she kept a full jar of Oreos I always had my hand in. We all called her our Greek Mama and loved her dearly. How nice it was to have that spot. Later, after we all grew up and her basement was finally renovated, I was gifted a mirror that used to hang down there. It's still hanging in my dining room to this day.
I remember my my senior year, my psychology teacher Dr. Turner could also see I was struggling. He was an older gentleman who'd been teaching probably since the 1950s and had seen thousands of teens come and go over his career. One fall he casually invited me to come to church on Thanksgiving with him (this was back when public school teachers could openly invite people to come to their church without fear of professional consequences). I was non-committal, but then on Thanksgiving Day I and a friend showed up at his church—a Church of the Nazarene—dressed in scummy punk rock clothes looking like trash. Dr. Turner was sitting in the pew in a polyester suit. He turned his head, saw us, and just smiled. He and his wife scooted over and made room. I don't remember anything about the service, but I still remember his smile when he saw me.
When I was around 19 years old I was at my worst in terms of depression, substance abuse, and nihilism. Man, I looked rough. But there was this elderly Presbyterian couple in town who used to take in troubled teens. Similar to Jeanne mentioned above, they'd just let my friends and I come in and out of their home. Duane was the husband's name. We'd stay up late at his kitchen table, smoking cigarettes and talking about life. I was on the cusp of believing, but not quite yet. Duane would feed us, give us cigarettes, and tell us about Jesus. He invited us to church, as well, but never pressured me. It was an open invitation; a few times I went, and he and his wife were very happy to see me there.
After I became a Christian, I started going to the Charismatic Episcopal Church, which is basically like if Anglicans spoke in tongues. The parish was this tiny, stuffy historic chapel, mainly attended by well-to-do, impeccably dressed Boomers who were stodgy in all other respects but wanted to let loose and speak in tongues for 15 minutes a week. I stood out like a sore thumb! I came into that little chapel with long hippie hair, combat boots, plaid punk rock pants, an ovesized black hoodie filled with clothespins and a gigantic red fabric cross pinned to the back. Despite the fact that I looked like a freak, the families of this little congregation welcomed me wholesomely. They talked to me, listened to me, invited me to their homes for fellowship, and showed me every courtesy I could have wished for. I was treated as a full member of the community in no respect different to the most distingushed or best dressed among them.
Later, when I'd cleaned up a bit and was going through RCIA as a candidate for confirmation in the Catholic Church, I had an RCIA Director named Michael. This poor guy. I plagued him weekly with all manner of questions on every subject imaginable. Could a robot perform a valid baptism? Could aliens become Christians? Stuff like that. I asked so many questions, and Michael would just listen patiently, think on it, then the next week he'd return with very well-written responses explaining the germane issues and referencing the appropriate Church documents. He always tooks my questions seriously, no matter how dumb they were. Michael could see I was intellectually wrestling and he wanted to bring me clarity. Finally, one week, he just handed me a Catechism of the Catholic Church—the old first edition with the tan cover—and signed it with the inscription, "May this book help explain to you the teachings of the Catholic Church." I still have it to this day.
You know what all these people have in common? Simply this—they were on my side. They were for me. At any point along this journey, any one of them could have sharply criticized many aspects of my life; I'm sure they did privately, for there was much to criticize. But my faults notwithstanding, they were always "for" me. Always wanting to bless me, help me, elevate me, make me do better. They were under no illusions about where I was, but they were always willing to show me a light on the journey. And in each case their help involved some type of condescension, a gesture of going beyond what was strictly necessary or even expected in order to reach me where I needed to be reached.
This, to me, is the essence of friendship—being "for" someone. It certainly does not mean you will agree with everything your friend does, nor that you should fail to call them out when they err. But it does mean that a friend's disposition is unambiguously "for" their companion. In all a friend does, in all his interactions, whatever is done is done from goodwill towards the other.
How consoling it is to know that this is how God views us. God is for us, not against us (cf. Rom. 8:31). Is this not what God demonstrated when He became a child in Bethlehem? What greater condescension could there be than for the Creator of the cosmos to be born in the company of farm animals, enfleshed in a mortal frame and subject to all the limitations of humanity? The world can be cold and life is hard. But God has broken through the darkness and reached out His hand. He has entered our mortal existence and taken on our sufferings, for in doing so He wishes us to know that He, too, is on "our side," more on our side than any human friend or kinsman, as He alone knows us at our innermost, as we are. He knows our situation better than we know it ourselves. And yet, He is still for us. He is for you. And that will never ever change, "for with him there is no variation or shadow due to change" (Jas. 1:17).
This Christmas, please remember that God is for you. Whatever happens, whatever befalls us in 2026, He is always working for your good—whether you recognize it or not, whether your conception of the "good" is the same as His or not, whether you are failing in various respects or not. It doesn't matter. The Incarnation is God's definitive gesture of good will towards mankind, and your sins, failings, and ignorance are not greater than the Incarnation.
Homo factus est
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