Chapter 6

Throughout this series, we have been exploring a more beautiful vision of God, ourselves, and the world.

We began with Prophetic Imagination and learning to see beyond what is to what could be. We explored the powerful influence of love and fear, and how anxiety and scapegoating often shape our lives and relationships. We examined the ways we create God in our own image and considered as an alternative the cruciform God revealed in Jesus – the self-giving, other-oriented, enemy-embracing God whose love continually moves toward humanity. And in the last chapter, we explored the gospel as God’s dream of restoration: goodness, peace, and wholeness between each of us and God, ourselves, all others, and the earth.

All of this brings us to an important question: If God truly is like Jesus, and if God’s dream is the restoration of all things, then what does God actually think about us?

What does God think about me?

Many of us have inherited the belief that there is something fundamentally wrong with us. We have been taught, either explicitly or implicitly, that we are unworthy, defective, or deeply flawed at our core. But what if there is another story? What if beneath the wounds, fears, failures, and shame we carry, there remains something beautiful that God has seen all along?

So, friends, to explore that possibility, we must return to the beginning of the story itself.

ORIGINAL GOODNESS
The opening pages of scripture tell us something important about God and something important about ourselves.

Before there is failure, before there is shame, before there is fear, before there is violence, before there is scapegoating, there is goodness.

Again and again, the creation story tells us that God looked upon what had been made and declared it good. Light was good. The earth was good. The seas were good. The plants and animals were good. And when humanity appeared, God declared it very good.

This matters.

The first thing God says about humanity is not sinful, depraved, broken, or unworthy. The first thing God says about humanity is good.

For many of us, this may be difficult to believe. We have spent so much time focusing on what comes later in the story that we have forgotten how the story begins. Yet Genesis offers us a glimpse into God’s original vision for humanity – a vision rooted not in shame, but in goodness.

The creation story goes even further. It tells us that human beings are made in the image of God. This is one of the most radical and beautiful ideas in all of scripture: every person bears the divine image. Every person possesses inherent dignity. Every person possesses sacred worth. Every person is deserving of love and belonging.

This image may be obscured by fear, woundedness, trauma or harmful choices. It may be distorted. It may be forgotten. But nowhere does scripture suggest that it has been removed.

The image remains. And God’s declaration of goodness echoes throughout the entire biblical story.

The prophets continually called people back to their true identity. Again and again, they invited Israel to remember who they were and whose they were. They believed that beneath the nation’s failures remained a people whom God loved and longed to heal.

Jesus continues this same pattern, and one of the most striking features of his ministry was his ability to see belovedness where others saw only brokenness. He saw dignity in those whom society dismissed. He saw possibility where others saw failure. He welcomed those whom others excluded. Over and over, Jesus recognized sacredness beneath the wounds people carry.

This should not surprise us. As we explored in an earlier chapter, Christians have long professed that Jesus is the fullest revelation of God. If we want to know what God is like, we look at Jesus.

And what do we find? Not a God eager to condemn. Not a God searching for reasons to reject. But the cruciform God; The self-giving, other-oriented, enemy-embracing One whose love continually moves toward people, especially those who have forgotten their worth.

We humans often struggle to generate lasting love for ourselves from within. We are imperfect judges of our own value. Our wounds, fears, failures, and experiences often cloud our vision.

Yet the Christian story insists that there is a love larger than our fears and deeper than our shame. A love that is patient and kind. A love that does not keep a record of wrongs. A love whose height and depth and width and length are beyond our ability to fully comprehend. And this love is directed toward us.

Toward you.

Not because you have earned it. Not because you have achieved enough. Not because you have become worthy of it. It was never about any of that. It is simply because love is God’s nature, and you are God’s Beloved.

Perhaps that’s why God’s declaration of goodness is not confined to the opening pages of Genesis. It appears again and again throughout scripture: Creation begins in goodness. Humanity bears the image of God. The prophets call people back to their true identity. Jesus reveals God’s unwavering love. Paul speaks of humanity being transformed into the image of Christ. And revelation ends not with humanity discarded, but restored.

Goodness is not merely our beginning. It is also our destination.

The story of scripture is not the story of God giving up on humanity. It is the story of God continually calling humanity home. Back to love. Back to wholeness. Back to belovedness. Back to the goodness that was there from the beginning.

THE RISE OF WORM THEOLOGY
The idea of Original Goodness began where Scripture begins: with a God who looks upon creation and declares it good, and upon humanity and declares it very good. Scripture tells us we bear the image of God, are beloved, and should understand ourselves as a part - and partners - of God’s ongoing work of restoring shalom.

Yet many of us have inherited a very different story.

For countless people, the dominant message of Christianity has not been that we are beloved image-bearers, but that we are fundamentally bad. We have been taught, either directly or indirectly, that there is something deeply wrong with us at our core. These messages have found their way into sermons and worship music and books and movies, and conversations at church. We may have heard phrases such as “I’m just a sinner saved by grace,” “there is nothing good in me,” or even “I’m just a wretch.” Over time, these messages can become more than theological ideas. They can become the lens through which we see ourselves, others, and even God.

Worm Theology is a theological perspective that emphasizes the depravity of humanity, often illustrated by the metaphor of humans as “worms.” To understand the rise of it, we must first understand something about the human experience.

Every one of us knows failure, we know fear, we know regret, we know the pain of hurting others and being hurt ourselves. We know what it feels like to fall short of our own hopes and expectations.

Healthy guilt can help us recognize when we have caused harm and motivate us towards repair and reconciliation. Shame, however, takes a different path. Guilt says, “I did something bad.” Shame says, “I am bad.”

Over time, shame can become a story about who we are.

And because human beings naturally seek explanations for their experiences, we often look for theological language to support what we already feel. If I carry deep shame, then a theology that tells me I am fundamentally unworthy may feel strangely familiar. It may even feel true.

Not because it reflects God’s perspective, but because it reflects my wounds.

Earlier in this series, we explored how we often create God in our own image, imagining God through the lenses we already possess.

If we view ourselves with compassion, we imagine a compassionate God. If we view ourselves with harshness, we imagine a harsh God. If our lives have been shaped by criticism, fear, rejection, or shame, it can become very easy to imagine that God feels the same way about us. In this way, our wounds can become projected onto God.

A person who believes they are unworthy may imagine a God who sees them as unworthy. A person who struggles to extend grace to themselves may imagine a God who struggles to extend grace as well. The result is a picture of God that often sounds remarkably similar to the voices that have wounded us.

One reason worm theology has endured for so long is because it resonates with the experience of so many people. If I already feel broken, then being told that I am fundamentally broken may feel validating. If I already feel unworthy, then being told that I am fundamentally unworthy may seem obvious. If I already carry shame, a shame-based theology may appear to confirm what I have believed all along.

What gives worm theology much of its emotional power is that it aligns with our wounds.

But there is an important difference between what feels true and what is true. Our feelings matter, our experiences matter, our wounds matter, yet none of those things necessarily tell us how God sees us.

BELOVEDNESS BENEATH THE WOUNDS
One of my greatest heroes, and one of the people who has most influenced my thinking on this subject, is Father Greg Boyle, founder of Los Angeles-based Homeboy Industries. Homeboy Industries bills itself as “the largest gang rehabilitation and re-entry program in the world.”

After decades of working with gang members, addicts, and others whom society labels as “bad” people, Fr. Greg has arrived at a radically different conclusion. He does not deny that people do harmful things: He does not deny violence, or aggression, or exploitation, or any other form of cruelty.

But rather than asking: “What’s wrong with this person?” he asks, “What happened to this person?”

That simple shift changes everything.

The first question often leads to judgment. The second leads to compassion.

The first assumes defectiveness. The second assumes woundedness.

The first seeks someone to blame. The second seeks someone to heal.

This is where I find myself completely aligned with Fr. Greg’s understanding of humanity. I do not deny that human beings can do really terrible things – history and the evening news provide more than enough evidence for that reality – but I do not believe that our deepest truth is depravity.

What if the violence, hatred, greed, prejudice, and cruelty we see in the world are not evidence that people are fundamentally bad? What if they are evidence that people are profoundly wounded? This does not excuse harmful behavior. It does not remove responsibility. It does not diminish accountability.

But it does offer a different diagnosis.

Healthy people do not seek to harm others. Healthy people do not need scapegoats. Healthy people do not need enemies. Healthy people do not need to dominate, shame, exclude, or dehumanize.

As we explored in earlier chapters, fear, anxiety, trauma, shame, and disconnection often drive these behaviors.

The issue is not that people are inherently evil – they’re not. The issue is that people are often deeply wounded.

This understanding also changes how we think about sin and repentance.

Earlier in this series, we defined sin as anything that opposes shalom – the flourishing relationship between each of us and God, ourselves, all others, and the earth. And we defined repentance not as an exercise in self-loathing or shame, but as a turning back toward love, a reorientation toward the goodness and wholeness for which we were created. So then, if our deepest identity is not depravity, but belovedness, then sin is not proof that we are worthless. Rather, it is evidence that we have become disconnected from our true selves.

The goal of the spiritual life is not to convince ourselves that we are terrible. The goal is to become increasingly aligned with the truth of who we already are: beloved image-bearers learning to live in harmony with God’s dream for the world

So back to Fr. Greg, who would say there are people who are traumatized, people who are despondent, people struggling with mental illness, grief, and despair. He would also say there are people who do terrible things, even unimaginably terrible things. Yet he insists that these actions do not reveal a person’s deepest identity. They reveal wounds.

Test this for yourself. Think of any harmful act, from gossip to emotional and physical abuse to murder, and ask yourself: “Would a healthy person do this?” Fr. Greg would say that the answer is always no. “Always. No exceptions.” Harmful behavior does not emerge from wholeness. It emerges from woundedness.

This does not excuse harmful behavior or remove accountability. But it does offer a different diagnosis. Worm theology says, “You did a bad thing because you are bad.” Fr. Greg suggests something very different: “You did a harmful thing because you are wounded.”

That distinction changes everything.

Not only does Fr. Greg reject the idea that people are fundamentally bad, he goes even further. He insists that all people are “unshakably good.” By this he means that our goodness is not earned, achieved, or conditional. It is grounded in the reality that every person bears the image of God.

Most systems begin with behavior and then draw conclusions about identity. Fr. Greg begins with identity and then interprets behavior through that lens.

I believe that this is how the cruciform God revealed in Jesus sees us as well.

THE PROBLEM WITH WORM THEOLOGY
The difficulty with worm theology is that it can become a self-fulfilling story. If I believe I am fundamentally bad, I may struggle to believe I am lovable. If I struggle to believe I am lovable, I may struggle to love others. If I struggle to love others, fear and division become easier. And if fear and division become easier, scapegoating is never far behind.

Back in chapter 3, we explored how anxiety often seeks relief through scapegoating. When we feel threatened, uncertain, or overwhelmed, our nervous systems instinctively search for someone to blame. Usually, that blame is directed outward toward a person, group, or perceived enemy.

But worm theology can turn this same mechanism inward.

Instead of concluding, “They are the problem,” we conclude, “I am the problem.” Rather than placing the weight of blame on an external scapegoat, we place it upon ourselves. We become the object of our own judgment, criticism, and condemnation.

While this may appear humble, it often produces the same fruit as any other form of scapegoating: Shame, separation, fear, and diminished compassion.

The gospel invites us to a different path. It invites us to tell the truth about our failures, without allowing those failures to become our identity. It calls us neither to condemn others nor to condemn ourselves, but to step into the healing work of love, grace, and restoration.

The story we tell ourselves shapes how we treat ourselves and everyone around us. If humanity is fundamentally rotten, then suspicion becomes reasonable. If humanity is fundamentally beloved, though, then compassion becomes possible.

What if our deepest truth is not shame? What if fear, trauma, anxiety, and sin are real, but not foundational? What if beneath our wounds there remains something sacred? What if God’s declaration of goodness was not erased, but merely forgotten?

What if the spiritual journey is not primarily about becoming someone else, but about remembering who we have always been?

These questions lead us toward a different vision of humanity. A vision rooted not in condemnation, but in belovedness. Not in worthlessness, but in dignity. Not in shame, but in goodness. And, perhaps, most importantly, a vision rooted in the conviction that beneath all the wounds, failures, fears, and mistakes, every person still bears the image of God.

The question, then, is not whether there is goodness within us. The question is whether we are willing to believe it.

BACK TO GOODNESS
If Father Greg is right – and I believe wholeheartedly that he is – then the question before us is not whether human beings are capable of great harm. We clearly are. We’ve all experienced the pain of being wounded by others, and if we are honest, we have all wounded others as well.

The real question is what woundedness says about us.

Many of us inherited the belief that our failings reveal our deepest truth. Yet what if our failings reveal our wounds rather than our identity? What if the problem is not that we are inherently depraved, but that we have become disconnected from our original goodness?

This does not excuse harmful behavior or eliminate responsibility or accountability. It simply offers a different diagnosis. Instead of seeing human beings as defective at their core, it sees them as wounded.

Instead of asking what is wrong with us, it asks what has happened to us.

As we explored in earlier chapters, fear, anxiety, trauma, shame, and disconnection can pull us away from love and toward self-protection. They can lead us to hurt others, scapegoat those who are different from us, or even turn our anger inward and scapegoat ourselves.

Yet none of these things are our deepest identity. Beneath the wounds remains the image of God.

This is why Jesus continually moved toward wounded people. He healed, forgave, restored, and welcomed. He challenged harmful behavior without reducing people to it. Again and again, he called forth the dignity and belovedness hidden beneath their wounds.

The journey back to goodness is not about becoming someone new. It is about healing enough to remember who we have been all along.

PRACTICING BELOVEDNESS
If our deepest truth is belovedness rather than shame, then the challenge before us is not simply to believe that idea, but to learn to live as though it is true.

For many of us, this will require unlearning old stories and practicing new ones. We have spent years believing that we are unworthy, defective, or not enough. Learning to see ourselves through the eyes of the cruciform God as revealed in Jesus takes time.

Here are a few places to begin:

Notice The Voices You Carry

Many of us carry voices from our past: parents, teachers, pastors & religious communities, partners, bullies, and our own inner critic. When these voices tell us that we are worthless, defective, unlovable, or beyond hope, pause and ask a simple question: Does this sound like the voice of the cruciform God as revealed by Jesus?

If not, it does not deserve the final word!

Receive Compassion Before Offering It

Many of us find it easier to extend grace to others than to ourselves. One way to counter that is to practice speaking to yourself with the same kindness, patience, and compassion you would offer a struggling friend. Healing often begins when we stop treating ourselves as enemies and begin treating ourselves as beloved children of God.

Tend To Your Wounds

Belovedness is not always something we can simply decide to feel. Sometimes wounds run deep: trauma, grief, abuse, neglect, addiction, anxiety, shame, and other painful experiences can make it difficult to receive love. Therapy, support groups, recovery programs, spiritual direction, trusted friends, and healthy community can all become sacred pathways towards healing.

Practice Healthy Boundaries

Recognizing the goodness and dignity of another person does not require tolerating harmful behavior. Some people may need forgiveness. Some people may need compassion. And some people may need distance. You can affirm that a person bears the image of God and is of immeasurable worth while also recognizing that they are not currently safe to have close access to your life.

Boundaries are not the opposite of love. Often, they are an expression of it.

Look For The Image Of God In Others

Especially the difficult ones. Especially the people you disagree with. Especially the people whom society labels, excludes, or dismisses.

This does not mean approving of harmful behavior. It means remembering that no person is reducible to their worst moment. The same goodness that exists within you exists within them as well.

Return Again And Again to God’s Dream

When fear rises, when shame returns, when old stories begin to reassert themselves, remember the larger story: you are not a worm or wretch trying to become lovable. You are a beloved image-bearer learning to live from the goodness that has been there from the beginning.

When in doubt, return again and again to God’s dream of peace, goodness, and wholeness between each of us and God, each of us and ourselves, each of us and all others, and each of us and the earth.

Again, the journey back to goodness is not about earning God’s love. It is about awakening to the love that has been there all along.

In closing, we are reminded that throughout this chapter we have explored two very different stories about what it means to be human. One story tells us that we are fundamentally bad, defective, and unworthy. It teaches us to interpret our failures as evidence of who we truly are. It invites us to live under the weight of shame and to see ourselves through the lens of our wounds.

The other story begins in a garden.

It begins with a Creator who looks upon creation and calls it good, and upon humanity and calls it very good.

It continues through the prophets who dreamed of restoration, through Jesus who consistently saw belovedness beneath brokenness, and through the cruciform God who refuses to abandon what God has made. It is a story that insists that beneath the fear, beneath the shame, beneath the trauma, beneath the failings and mistakes, there remains something sacred: there remains the image of God.

Perhaps this is why the story of the Prodigal Son has resonated with so many people through the centuries.

The younger son wanders far from home. He makes terrible choices. He hurts himself and others. Eventually, broken and ashamed, he begins a long journey back, rehearsing a speech of unworthiness: “I am no longer deserving.”

Shame always speaks this way. It tells us that our failings have changed who we are. It tells us that we have become something less.

Yet when the son arrives home, the father tells a different story. Before the speech is finished, the father is already running toward him. Before restitution can be offered, the father is already embracing him. Before worthiness can be proven, the father is already celebrating him.

The son returns, believing his identity has changed. The father reveals that it never did.

Perhaps this is the invitation before us as well.

Not to deny our wounds. Not to excuse harmful behavior. Not to avoid accountability. But to remember that these things are not our deepest truth. Our deepest truth is that we are beloved.

The spiritual journey is not about becoming lovable. It is about awakening to the love that has been there all along.

BLESSING
And so, as we continue our pursuit of God’s dream of goodness, peace, and wholeness between each of us and God, each of us and ourselves, each of us and all others, and each of us and the earth, may we hear the gentle invitation that has been waiting for us all along: “Come home to your true self, the Beloved.”

Amen.

Coming soon! – “Chapter 7: We Are All One.” Subscribe for free so that you don’t miss it.