Chapter 7

Throughout this series, we have been exploring a more beautiful vision of reality.

We begin with Prophetic Imagination and the invitation 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 the way we see ourselves and others. We examined the ways we create God in our own image and considered instead the cruciform God revealed in Jesus – the self-giving, other-oriented, enemy-embracing God whose love continually moves towards humanity. 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. And in the last chapter, we reflected on Original Goodness and the possibility that beneath all our wounds, fears, failures, and shame, there remains something beautiful and eternal: the image of God within us.

Taken together, these chapters have invited us to reconsider many assumptions we often take for granted. Assumptions about God. Assumptions about ourselves. Assumptions about the world around us.

But there may be one more assumption worth examining: what if we are not as separate as we imagine?

What if the divisions that seem so obvious – between ourselves and others, between humanity and creation, between “us” and “them” – are not the deepest truth about reality?

What if beneath the boundaries we see lies a deeper connectedness, a deeper belonging, a deeper unity than we have ever imagined?

To explore that possibility, we begin by looking more closely at the world itself.

MORE CONNECTED THAN WE BELIEVE

One of the most common assumptions we make about life is that we are separate.

We experience ourselves as individual people living among other individual people. We see distinct objects, distinct lives, distinct stories. There is me and there is you. There is humanity and there is nature. There is the observer and there is the observed.

At first glance, reality appears to be made up of separate things. Yet the deeper we look, the more interesting the story becomes.

Everything around us – including our own bodies – is made up of atoms. From the ground beneath us to the stars above us, from the air we breathe to the cells that make up our bodies, everything is constructed from the same basic building blocks.

Atoms are astonishingly small. About one million atoms lying side by side are as thick as a human hair. A single grain of sand contains roughly twenty-two quintillion atoms. The scale is almost impossible to comprehend.

As scientists looked deeper into these tiny structures, they discovered something unexpected. Atoms, it turns out, are mostly empty space.

If an atom were enlarged to the size of a sports stadium, its nucleus would be roughly the size of a grain of rice sitting at the center. Nearly everything else would be space.

This raises an interesting question. If everything around us is made of atoms, and atoms are mostly empty space, then what exactly is, for example, a bedside table? The table certainly feels solid. It has weight and shape. It can support a lamp, a book, and a glass of lemonade.

Yet beneath that appearance lies something far more dynamic.

What we call a table is not merely a thing. At deeper levels, it can be understood as a vast network of relationships. It is energy organized in a particular way. As we currently understand it, matter is not static and unmoving. It is activity, motion, interaction, and relationship.

The deeper scientists look, the less reality resembles a collection of isolated objects and the more it resembles an interconnected web of relationships.

Even our own bodies tell this story.

Every day we lose hair. Every day we shed skin cells. Every few weeks, our skin is renewed. Over time, the molecules and atoms that make up our bodies are constantly coming and going.

And yet, through all this change, our body somehow remembers how to be us.

Your body is composed of trillions of cells. Those cells are made of molecules. Those molecules are made of atoms. And those atoms are the same basic elements found throughout the Earth and throughout the universe.

The carbon in your body, the oxygen you breathe, the water you drink, the soil beneath your feet, and the stars above your head all share a common story.

We are, very literally, made of the same stuff.

The atoms that make up your body today were once part of countless other things. They may have existed in oceans and forests, mountains and rivers, animals and plants, and, incredibly, other human beings. The universe is constantly exchanging, renewing, and recycling itself.

Nothing exists entirely on its own.

The deeper we look, the harder it becomes to maintain the story that we are isolated beings moving through a disconnected world.

Instead, we begin to discover something else. We begin to discover participation.

We are not outside of reality looking in. We are part of it. We are not detached observers standing apart from creation. We are woven into it.

We breathe the same air. We share the same elements. We depend upon the same earth. We participate in the same story.

We are far more connected than we believe.

THE ILLUSION OF SEPARATION

If the previous section suggests that reality is more interconnected than we might imagine, then perhaps we should consider the possibility that separation itself is not the deepest truth about the world.

This is not to say that distinctions do not exist. You are you, and I am me. We each have our own stories, personalities, experiences, and perspectives. Yet beneath those distinctions lies a deeper reality that we often overlook: our lives are profoundly intertwined.

‘The illusion’ of separation is one of the most powerful stories we tell ourselves.

It appears in countless forms. It appears in our relationships, our politics, our religions, and even in the ways we think about God and ourselves. It shows up whenever we divide the world into categories of “us” and “them,” insider and outsider, worthy and unworthy, friend and enemy.

Throughout this series, we have explored several ways this story shapes our lives.

In Chapter Two, we considered the powerful influence of love and fear. Fear narrows our vision. It convinces us that we must protect ourselves from one another. It teaches us to see threats, enemies, and competitors. Fear divides reality into safe and unsafe, friend and foe, us and them.

Love moves in the opposite direction. Love expands. Love connects. Love reminds us that our lives are bound together in ways we often fail to recognize. Where fear builds walls, love builds bridges. Where fear isolates, love restores relationships.

What if love feels so deeply right because it aligns us with the way reality actually is?

In Chapter Three, we explored anxiety and scapegoating. We discovered that when anxiety rises, we often seek relief by locating a problem outside ourselves. We identify a scapegoat. We assign blame. We convince ourselves that if this person, group, or idea could simply be removed, everything would be better.

Yet scapegoating depends upon separation.

Before I can make someone a scapegoat, I must first convince myself that they are fundamentally different from me. I must see them as the other. I must forget our shared humanity. I must ignore the ways our lives are connected.

The same pattern appears in our understanding of God.

Many of us inherited a picture of God as distant and far away. God is somewhere else. God is above. God is removed from the ordinary realities of human life.

Yet the story of scripture continually moves in another direction.

From God walking in the garden, to the tabernacle in the wilderness, to the prophets proclaiming God’s presence among the people, to Jesus as Emmanuel – God with us – the biblical story is remarkably consistent. Again and again, God moves towards humanity rather than away from it.

And in Jesus, we encounter the cruciform God we explored earlier in this series: the self-giving, other-oriented, enemy-embracing God whose love continually crosses every boundary we create.

The cruciform God does not reinforce separation. The cruciform God overcomes it.

The same is true of how we understand ourselves.

Worm theology tells us that we are fundamentally disconnected from goodness. Shame tells us that we are cut off from love. It tries to convince us that our failings reveal our deepest truth.

Yet shame itself is a form of separation. It separates us from our own belovedness. It separates us from the image of God within us. It convinces us that we have become something other than what God created us to be.

Original Goodness, which we explored in the last chapter, offers a different story.

Beneath the wounds remains the image of God. Beneath the fear remains belovedness. Beneath the shame remains goodness. The connection was never lost, it was simply forgotten.

When viewed together, a pattern begins to emerge: Fear creates separation, but love restores connection. Anxiety creates scapegoats, but compassion restores belonging. Shame separates us from ourselves, but belovedness brings us home.

Perhaps this is why God’s dream has always been described in terms of relationship. Throughout this series, we have defined shalom as goodness, peace, and wholeness between each of us and God, ourselves, all others, and the earth.

Notice that every part of that definition is relational. God’s dream is not merely individual transformation, but restored relationship, restored connection, and the healing of separation wherever separation exists.

Perhaps God has never been trying to create connection. Perhaps God has always been trying to restore the connection that has been there all along.

And if that is true, then the next question becomes unavoidable: What does life look like when we begin to remember that we belong to one another?

WE BELONG TO EACH OTHER

If separation is not the deepest truth about reality, then what is? Perhaps the answer is simpler than we imagine.

Perhaps it is that we belong to one another.

Not because we all think alike. Not because we all agree. Not because our differences disappear. Human diversity is one of the great gifts of creation. We each carry unique stories, experiences, perspectives, cultures, personalities, and gifts.

Yet beneath those differences lies something deeper: we share a common humanity.

We all know joy and sorrow. We all know love and loss. We all experience hope, disappointment, fear, and longing. We all seek belonging. We all desire to be seen, valued, and loved. We all carry wounds. We all dream of a better future.

The details of our stories may differ, but the human experience itself is remarkably shared.

What happens to one of us affects all of us. The suffering of one person ripples outward into families, communities, and generations. The kindness of one person does the same. Acts of violence create waves that extend far beyond the original moment. Acts of compassion do as well. Our lives are woven together in ways we often fail to recognize.

As mentioned in the previous chapter, this understanding sits at the heart of the work and wisdom of Father Greg Boyle, who, after decades of walking alongside those who society labels as outsiders, arrived at a simple but transformative conviction:

“There is no us and them. There is only us.”

At first, those words sound idealistic, but the longer we sit with them, the more challenging they become. Because “us and them” is the language of separation. It is the language of fear. It is the language of scapegoating. It is the language that allows us to create categories of worthy and unworthy, acceptable and unacceptable, insider and outsider.

The moment we divide humanity into “us” and “them,” it becomes easier to dismiss, exclude, dehumanize, or ignore the suffering of those on the other side of the line.

Father Greg invites us to erase the line altogether. Not by pretending that harmful behavior does not exist. Not by abandoning accountability or justice. But by refusing to believe that anyone exists outside the circle of human belonging. This is what he means when he speaks of kinship. Kinship is not sameness. Kinship is not the absence of boundaries. Kinship is the recognition that we are connected to one another, whether we acknowledge it or not.

It is the refusal to allow fear to define who belongs and who does not. It is a decision to move toward one another, rather than away from one another. It is the recognition that another person’s humanity is bound up with our own. Perhaps this is why the great spiritual traditions consistently call us towards compassion. Compassion is more than kindness. It is the ability to recognize ourselves in another person. It is the realization that the fears I carry are not entirely different from the fears you carry. The wounds I carry are not entirely different from the wounds you carry. The hopes I carry are not entirely different from the hopes you carry.

The circumstances may vary. The stories may differ. But beneath it all, we encounter the same human longing for love, dignity, belonging, and peace.

This does not mean that every person is safe. It does not mean that healthy boundaries disappear. It does not mean that we stop confronting injustice or harmful behavior. Rather, it means that we do those things without forgetting the humanity of the people involved.

The illusion of separation tells us that some people matter more than others, but kinship tells us that every person belongs. The illusion of separation tells us that another person suffering is their problem, but kinship reminds us that another person’s suffering diminishes us all. The illusion of separation tells us that flourishing is a competition, but kinship reminds us that flourishing is shared.

When one child goes hungry, something is diminished in all of us. When one person is excluded, something is diminished in all of us. When one community suffers violence, something is diminished in all of us.

And when healing occurs, when reconciliation happens, when dignity is restored, when people are welcomed home, something beautiful expands within all of us as well.

Perhaps this is what we have been searching for throughout this entire series. Not simply a better theology. Not simply a better understanding of ourselves, but a deeper awareness that we belong to one another. And if this is true – and I believe it is – then God’s dream of peace, goodness, and wholeness is even larger than we imagined.

Perhaps this whole thing is not merely about individual transformation, but about the healing and restoration of it all.

GOD’S DREAM OF ONENESS

Throughout this series, we have repeatedly returned to a single idea: God’s dream is the restoration of shalom, which we defined as 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.

At first glance, these may appear to be four separate relationships, but they are not. They are four dimensions of the same reality.

When we experience disconnection from ourselves, it affects our relationship with others. When our relationship with others becomes fractured, our relationship with God can become clouded as well. When we exploit or neglect the earth, both humanity and creation suffer together. Every part affects every other part.

The deeper we look, the more interconnected everything becomes.

Just as the health of a single organ affects the health of the entire body, the health of one relationship influences all the others. Nothing exists in isolation. Everything participates in everything else.

Perhaps this is why Jesus consistently refused to separate things the way we often do.

When asked about the greatest commandment, he did not offer a list of disconnected spiritual duties. Instead, he joined together love of God and love of neighbor. The two belonged together.

The author of the letter of First John would later make a similar observation when he wrote that anyone who claims to love God while hating a brother or sister is deceiving themselves. Why? Because the two relationships cannot ultimately be separated. What we do to one another affects us all.

This truth appears throughout scripture: The prophets envisioned a world where justice and peace embraced. Jesus proclaimed a Kingdom where outsiders became neighbors and enemies became friends. Paul described humanity as a body with many parts, each dependent upon the others. The biblical story consistently moved towards reconciliation, restoration, and communion.

It moves towards oneness.

Not sameness. Not uniformity. Not the erasure of individuality. But harmony.

A choir is not beautiful because every voice sings the same note. It is beautiful because different voices come together to create something greater than any one voice could create alone.

The same is true of God’s dream.

The goal is not the elimination of difference. Diversity is woven into creation itself. Rather, the goal is the restoration of relationships. It is learning to live in ways that honor our connectedness while celebrating our uniqueness. This is what shalom looks like.

Shalom is not merely the absence of conflict, but the presence of right relationship. It is humanity living in harmony with God. It is people at peace with themselves. It is neighbors caring for one another. It is communities where dignity is protected, and belonging is expanded. It is creation flourishing alongside humanity rather than being exploited by it. It is the healing of separation wherever separation exists.

Viewed this way, God’s dream is not about rescuing isolated individuals from the world. It is about the restoration of the whole. The healing of relationships. The reconciliation of what has been divided. The restoration of what fear, anxiety, violence, shame, and scapegoating has fractured.

Perhaps this is why the cruciform God revealed in Jesus continually moves towards connection.

Jesus healed what was broken. He welcomed those who had been excluded. He crossed social, religious, ethnic, and political boundaries. He challenged systems that divided people into categories of worthy and unworthy. Again and again, he moved towards reconciliation, belonging, and restoration.

The life of Jesus reveals that God’s dream has never been separation. God’s dream has always been communion.

And perhaps this is where all of our reflections throughout this series have been leading.

If we are more connected than we think ...

If separation is not the deepest truth ...

If we belong to one another ...

Then every act of love becomes an act of restoration. Every act of compassion becomes an act of healing. Every act of reconciliation becomes participation in God’s dream.

The invitation before us is not simply to believe these things, but to live as though they were true.

And that begins by looking honestly at our own lives.

SELF-REFLECTION PRACTICE

To participate in this exercise, simply take a few moments to become still. Take several slow, deep breaths and remember this is not an exercise in judgment or self-condemnation. Rather, it is an invitation to notice where goodness, peace, and wholeness are already present in your life, and where God may be inviting you into deeper healing and restoration.

As you reflect, remember that shalom is not divided into separate compartments. Our relationship with God, ourselves, all others, and the earth is woven together. Growth in one area affects the others. Likewise, wounds in one area can ripple throughout our lives.

With that in mind – and paying close attention to your body – consider the following questions being as open, honest, and specific as possible:

Remember that God’s dream is not perfection but restoration. Shalom is built slowly: one act of courage, one moment of compassion, one healed wound, one repaired relationship, one choice to move from fear toward love. Trust that wherever love is growing, God’s dream is already taking root.

As we close, we have seen that throughout this chapter – and indeed throughout the series – that God’s dream of shalom is 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. We have also seen that these are not separate relationships to be managed independently, but one interconnected reality. When one is wounded, all are affected. When one begins to heal, healing spreads outward in ways we may not immediately see, but is happening nonetheless.

This is the good news. Despite all that fear, anxiety, violence, and division have fractured, God has not abandoned creation. The cruciform God revealed in Jesus continues to move toward reconciliation, restoration, and renewal. Divine love is always at work, inviting us to trust more deeply, to heal more honestly, to widen our circle of compassion, and to participate in the flourishing of the world around us.

And perhaps this raises one final question. If God’s dream is the restoration of shalom, and if love is the force that moves that restoration forward, what would it look like if love became not just something we believe in, but instead the very way we live?

That is where we turn to next.

BLESSING

And so, as we continue our pursuit of beauty and the fulfillment of 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, may our hearts continue to widen until we see ourselves, all people, and all creation through the eyes of God’s love. And may we become the people through whom peace grows, wounds heal, reconciliation takes root, and hope flourishes.

Amen.

Coming soon, the finale! - “Chapter 8: Becoming Love.”