Before we begin, I want to share something personal.
One of the promises I have tried to make through Message from the Margins is that I would never write from above you.
If I’m going to ask you to walk a path of faith, reflection, growth, and honest self-examination, then I need to be willing to walk that path too.
Not as a tour guide.
Not as a disembodied voice dispensing wisdom from a safe distance.
But as a fellow traveler.
A priest, certainly. But also a human being.
That means there are things I struggle with.
There are lessons I am still learning.
There are parts of the Gospel I understand far better in theory than I always succeed in living.
Today’s reflection is about one of those things.
As I wrote it, I found myself wondering how many of us are in the same boat.
Some of us may still be struggling with it.
Some may have worked through it years ago and have wisdom to share with the rest of us.
Most of us, I suspect, are somewhere in between.
Either way, what follows is close to my heart.
And while I’m being vulnerable, let me make one more request.
This work exists because readers choose to support it.
I cannot imagine writing a reflection like this and interrupting it every few paragraphs to sell you an Ab Dolly, a miracle supplement, or whatever today’s algorithm has decided we should be buying.
I can even less imagine putting these reflections behind a paywall when one of our sisters or brothers might genuinely need them on a difficult day.
So the ministry model is simple.
The essays remain available to everyone.
Those who are able to help support the work do so, so that it can continue.
If Message from the Margins has encouraged you, challenged you, helped you think more deeply, pray more honestly, or feel a little less alone, I would be grateful if you would consider becoming a paid supporter today.
Your support allows me to keep creating thoughtful, accessible spiritual content without cluttering it with advertisements or restricting it to those who can afford it.
Thank you for reading.
Your Brother on the Path,
These reflections remain free because readers who value them choose to support them. If you’d like to help keep Message from the Margins accessible to everyone, please consider becoming a paid supporter today.
Now let’s talk about something I’ve been learning the hard way.
When Love Feels Like We’re Imposing
We spend a lot of time learning how to love others. Far fewer of us learn how to receive love when it is offered.
I have noticed something about myself that I do not particularly admire.
When someone does something kind for me, I often start calculating.
A friend picks up the check at dinner, and somewhere in the back of my mind a note gets made.
I owe them.
Someone goes out of their way to help me, and before I have fully received the kindness, I am already thinking about how to return it.
Someone gives me a gift, and an internal accountant begins balancing books nobody asked him to keep.
For a long time, I mistook this for gratitude.
I am not so sure anymore.
The strange thing is that I do not think this way when I am the one giving.
When I buy someone dinner, I do not expect repayment.
When I give a gift, I am not secretly keeping score.
When I help a friend, I do not sit around waiting for them to return the favor.
In fact, I would be horrified to learn that someone experienced my generosity as a burden.
If I buy a friend dinner, I do not want them spending the evening wondering how they will settle the debt.
I want them to enjoy the meal.
I want them to know they matter to me.
The meal is not really the gift.
The gift is the affection behind it.
The time.
The attention.
The choice to spend something of myself on another person simply because I care about them.
Which raises an uncomfortable question.
If I do not view my own generosity as a transaction, why am I so quick to treat the generosity of others as though it might be one?
A friend jokingly blames this on being a Taurus. According to him, Taurus people hate owing anyone anything and dislike feeling dependent on others.
I don’t know about all that…
I do know the Gospel has quite a bit to say about unearned grace.
And I know this much about myself: when I turn every kindness into a debt to be repaid, I am not really receiving the gift at all.
I am receiving the object.
I am missing the relationship.
That is the real loss.
When we immediately begin calculating repayment, we can miss what another person is actually trying to give us.
A birthday gift is not really about the object inside the box.
A dinner invitation is not primarily about the food.
A favor is rarely about the task itself.
These things are ways human beings communicate care.
They are small sacrifices of time, attention, effort, and affection.
They are ways of saying, “You matter to me.”
And when we cannot receive that message, something beautiful gets interrupted.
We turn friendship into accounting.
We convert affection into obligation.
We miss the connection hiding inside the gift.
I want to share something else I have come to believe is another expression of the same distortion.
Sometimes people invite me to dinner, ask me to spend time with them, or simply seem to enjoy my company, and I catch myself thinking:
Who wants to spend an evening with a middle-aged cleric?
I am not exactly the life of the party.
Sometimes the thought is even less generous than that. If someone wants to spend time with me, some small voice suggests it must be charity, confusion, or evidence of some other motives.
Charming, I know.
The thought usually passes quickly, but it appears often enough that I have learned to pay attention to it.
Because the person extending the invitation has already made their choice.
They have decided they enjoy my company.
Yet some part of me still wants to argue with them.
I suspect many of us do something similar.
Someone says, “I enjoy being with you,” and we think, “You must be mistaken.”
Someone says, “You matter to me,” and we begin listing reasons they have overestimated us.
Someone offers forgiveness, and we make a case for our guilt.
At some point we stop disagreeing with our critics and start disagreeing with everyone who loves us.
The Christian tradition has never called this humility.
Humility is living in the truth.
It means refusing to exaggerate our importance, but it also means refusing to deny the dignity God has given us.
There is nothing holy about constantly belittling what God has called beloved. That means you and me.
As I have reflected on this, I have become increasingly aware that not everyone arrives at these struggles by the same path.
One of the hardest moments in life comes when we realize that the voices in our heads that once protected us from being hurt may now be keeping us from being loved fully.
Some of us have learned to mistrust love because we have been abandoned before.
Some have learned to mistrust kindness because it came with strings attached.
Some have learned to mistrust praise because it was followed by criticism.
Some have learned to mistrust grace because they encountered judgment long before they encountered mercy.
Human beings adapt.
We learn.
We survive.
The challenge comes later, when the danger has passed but the protective voice remains.
The voice that once helped us avoid disappointment begins questioning every act of affection.
The voice that once shielded us from rejection begins arguing with every compliment.
The voice that once helped us stay safe begins keeping us alone.
That having been said, I do want to make one an important distinction.
A friend buying dinner is not the same thing as the grace of salvation.
A birthday gift is not the Cross.
A neighbor bringing in your trash can is not baptism.
Human kindness and divine grace are not identical.
But they are related.
The same heart that struggles to receive ordinary kindness often struggles to receive grace from God as well.
The scale is different.
The instinct is surprisingly similar.
I want to earn my place.
I want to stay even.
I want to avoid dependence.
I want to make sure I owe nobody anything.
The Gospel keeps interrupting all of that.
When Peter protested as Jesus knelt to wash his feet, he probably thought he was being reverent.
Instead, he was resisting being served.
He understood loyalty.
He understood sacrifice.
He understood action.
He understood the differences in their position.
What he struggled with was receiving.
Jesus replied, “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me” (John 13:8, NIV).
Christianity begins there.
Not with our achievement, but with God’s initiative.
Paul writes, “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8, NIV).
While.
Not after we had earned it.
Not after we had repaid it.
Not after we had become worthy of it.
While.
The grace of God is not a transaction.
It is a gift.
And perhaps one of the reasons grace can feel so unsettling is because gifts require something many of us find difficult.
They require us to receive.
As we prepare to conclude, I want to bring focus back to our human relationships.
None of this means we abandon prudence.
It does not mean we ignore unhealthy relationships or pretend that every act of generosity is pure.
Nor am I subtly suggesting that all my friends should begin expressing their affection through a steady stream of lobster dinners (Seriously, please don’t).
Wisdom still matters.
Boundaries still matter.
Discernment still matters.
But receiving love graciously matters just as much.
There is a difference between wisdom and suspicion.
There is a difference between gratitude and anxiety.
There is a difference between receiving a gift and trying to neutralize it.
Giving and receiving love is not the same thing as matching gifts dollar for dollar or favor for favor.
When someone offers us a gift in good faith, the most loving response is not always repayment.
Sometimes the most loving response is reception.
To receive the gift.
To receive the affection behind it.
To receive the relationship being offered.
To say thank you.
And let the moment become what it was intended to be.
A moment of connection.
The good news is that recognizing these patterns is not the same thing as being ruled by them.
Most of us do not get to choose which wounds we carry.
We do get to decide whether those wounds will have the final word.
The voice may still whisper, “You owe them.”
We can answer, “No, they were being kind.”
The voice may still whisper, “They do not really want your company.”
We can answer, “They invited me. I will trust them enough to believe them.”
The voice may still whisper, “You have not earned this.”
And perhaps that is exactly the point.
Not everything good in life is earned.
Not friendship.
Not forgiveness.
Not love.
Not grace.
The older I get, the more convinced I become that freedom is found here.
When we stop treating every kindness as a debt, relationships become lighter.
We spend less energy managing obligations and more energy enjoying one another.
We become more present.
More grateful.
More available to the people who care about us.
And perhaps a little more open to the God who does.
Because God is not trying to settle accounts with us.
God is trying to love us.
And perhaps one of the ways we learn to recognize that love is by becoming a little better at receiving the smaller expressions of love that pass between us every day.
A Few Practices for This Week
1. Accept one kindness without immediately planning repayment.
Simply say thank you.
Leave the ledger closed.
2. Pay attention to the voice.
When someone offers encouragement, help, or affection, notice your first reaction.
Do you receive it?
Or do you argue with it?
3. Read John 13:1-17.
Watch Peter struggle to let Jesus serve him.
Ask yourself where you struggle to do the same.
4. Let someone care for you.
Not because you deserve it.
Not because you have earned it.
Simply because they want to.
Now It’s Your Turn…
I’d love to hear your thoughts.
Do you find it easier to give love or receive it?
And what is one small act of kindness that you have learned to accept more graciously over the years?
Share your thoughts in the comments. Your experience may help someone else see themselves a little more clearly.
And perhaps as you were reading, someone came to mind.
A friend who struggles to accept help.
A family member who always insists they’re “fine.”
Someone who gives generously but has a hard time receiving care in return.
If so, consider sharing this reflection with them. Sometimes one of the most loving things we can do is remind another person that they don’t have to earn every expression of love that comes their way.
Prayer
Loving God,
You give before we ask, love before we understand, and offer mercy before we know how to receive it.
Teach us to recognize the difference between wisdom and fear.
Free us from the belief that every kindness creates a debt, and every gift must be repaid before it can be enjoyed.
Help us receive the care of others with gratitude instead of anxiety.
When old wounds make us suspicious of love, give us courage to remain open.
When we diminish ourselves, remind us that we are made in Your image and called beloved through Christ.
Teach us to receive Your grace as the gift it is, not something to be earned, purchased, or balanced against our failures.
And as we learn to receive love more fully, make us more generous, more trusting, and more alive to the people and blessings You place before us.
Through Christ our Lord.
Amen.
Well… I suddenly feel a bit like I’m standing on stage in a crowded theater in my underpants!
Vulnerability has a way of doing that.
At the same time, there’s a certain relief that comes from saying something personal out loud. Writing has a way of helping us make sense of ourselves… after all, this has only gone out to 8,000 of my closest friends.
But you know something? It’s worth it if it helps even one of you feel a little better, a little more understood, or a little less alone out on the limb.
If this reflection resonated with you, I’d be grateful if you’d consider becoming a paid supporter of Message from the Margins.
This community exists because readers choose to support work that is thoughtful, honest, and available to everyone.
And if today’s essay made you a little uncomfortable in the way truth occasionally does, well… perhaps we both got something out of it.