This is who he is. This is, too:

PARABLE OF TWO DEBTORS

³⁶When one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to have dinner with him, he went to the Pharisee’s house and reclined at the table. ³⁷A woman in that town who lived a sinful life learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, so she came there with an alabaster jar of perfume. ³⁸As she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them. ³⁹When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is—that she is a sinner.”

⁴⁰Jesus answered him, “Simon, I have something to tell you.” “Tell me, teacher,” he said.

⁴¹“Two people owed money to a certain moneylender. One owed him five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. ⁴²Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he forgave the debts of both. Now which of them will love him more?” ⁴³Simon replied, “I suppose the one who had the bigger debt forgiven.” “You have judged correctly,” Jesus said.

⁴⁴Then he turned toward the woman and said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. ⁴⁵You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. ⁴⁶You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. ⁴⁷Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”

⁴⁸Then Jesus said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.” ⁴⁹The other guests began to say among themselves, “Who is this who even forgives sins?” ⁵⁰Jesus said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace” (Luke 7:36-50).

Okay. First of all, Jesus loved everyone, and that includes Pharisees. He spent time with everyone. As soon as I judge Simon the Pharisee for his lack of forgiveness in Luke’s gospel here I am reminded of this: Simon invited Jesus for dinner and even more importantly Jesus accepted his invitation. (Hmph.) Jesus was willing to spend time with Simon. So with that as a reminder to myself and to anyone who needs a nudge, let’s take a look at who Jesus is as this weeping woman encounters him.

THIS KIND OF WOMAN

So this woman is a sinner, and apparently her “sinful life” is common knowledge. I imagine it’s humiliating for “a woman who leads a sinful life” to appear anywhere in first-century society and even more so to enter the home of someone who knows about her sin and judges her for whatever the sin is. Luke doesn’t actually tell us what the sin is, but he tells us what Simon’s thoughts are. His thoughts seem demeaning and degrading; he believes this “kind of woman” should not be permitted to touch Jesus. She is not worthy. She is less-than. She is this kind of woman and should remain so. What does Simon mean by “kind of woman?” One can imagine, but Luke doesn’t tell us and we shouldn’t assume it’s a Hester-Prynne-parallel. Maybe she, a “successful” businesswoman, exploited the poor for her own profit? We don’t know.

I imagine the home dripping with tension, though, as Simon has taken offense because of who she is, and he does not willingly offer mercy or forgiveness. She knows what Simon thinks of her, likely, yet —

Luke wrote the woman “learned” that Jesus was at the house, and Jesus is the reason why she went there. She went to Simon’s home despite the religious leader knowing about her sinful life and disapproving of it. And here we infer a glimpse of Jesus’s mercy and of how he was spending his days in Israel. This woman (I wish we knew her name) wanted to see Jesus. She wanted to be near him. She withstood the shame of disapproval to express her gratitude. Thanking Jesus for his mercy and offering him thanksgiving mattered more than shaming looks and comments.

And she is not just crying as she pours aromatics over Jesus’s feet but she is weeping, Luke wrote. What causes her to not just cry but to weep over him? Maybe she is weeping with relief from receiving the depths of his mercy or maybe she is weeping with gratitude for what Jesus forgave. Maybe she realizes that he knows about her sin whatever it is and loves her anyways? That he accepts her presence and her offering in the midst of her sin, and he does it amongst Simon’s disapproval?

POWER IMBALANCE

She does not appear to be on a level playing field. There’s a power imbalance in Simon’s home at this moment, and the power scale is not tipped in her favor. I’m coming to consider this woman as quite brave, actually. She endured shame and discomfort to thank the One who mattered most.

What we know for sure: Simon the Pharisee disapproves of her sinful life, and he disapproves of her touching Jesus because she’s that kind of woman. Maybe he thought she had broken the law and wanted to advocate for law observance? Sure, okay. But his problem was this: he did not want to forgive whatever it is she had done.

But then the atmosphere shifts in Simon’s home. “Simon, I have something to tell you,” Jesus says. (Uh oh.)

Imagine Jesus looking at this woman in this moment when he realizes Simon’s unforgiving posture. Jesus looks at her not with disdain that would cause her to melt in shame but with compassion and understanding. Imagine him looking at her with mercy and with thanksgiving for her offering and with pride for fully understanding and receiving his redemption.

Jesus indirectly yet very boldly teaches Simon about the great mystery of forgiveness and mercy in his kingdom. He shares a parable, of course, and he elevates this weeping woman’s response to him over Simon’s lack-of-response.

“Her many sins have been forgiven,” Jesus says, “as her great love has shown.” Yes, Jesus knows about the many sins and forgives her for all of them.

Reader, she gets it. She gets redemption. She understands grace. She is weeping over the gift of it. Those who have received his grace are changed by it, aren’t they? Jesus pauses here at Simon’s home, where it seems his pause grants this woman dignity and worth. He praises her and redeems her in front of a religious leader who does not approve of her touching Jesus. Jesus tells her that she is saved. She is saved because of her faith in him, and he reassures her of his life-transforming-cosmic peace. This peace — and the feeling of relief that comes with it — means she can leave Simon’s house, the weight of what she’s done lifted with the freedom of being released. She is forgiven, and she knows how much she matters to the one who sees her and loves her despite what he sees.

This is who Jesus is. He is forgiveness and he is redemption and he is relief.

Finally, remember this account is not a parable. This is not a story. This is an eyewitness account of a woman’s redemptive encounter with Jesus that Luke recorded in his gospel. He considered it so important that he included it in his biography about Jesus the Messianic King. Simon learns forgiveness, and he watches one forgiven.

He has come to his people and redeemed them.

(Yes, this is the Ruth who married Billy Graham. Though known publicly as an evangelist’s wife, Ruth embodied the ministry of Jesus in her relationship with Cornwell.)

Ruth Graham is more than a supporting character in this memoir. She is the one to whom Cornwell continually returns in presence and spirit. Ruth is her heart’s home, it seems, until illness and death took Mrs. Graham in 2007.

But goodness and its impressions on the heart last beyond the separation of death.

Ruth Graham

Cornwell — and I’ll hereafter use her forename — met Ruth Graham abruptly on a cold, snowy day in 1966. Nine-year-old Patricia and her brothers and mother knocked on the Grahams’ door in Montreat, North Carolina, destitute and begging. The family had never before met the Grahams but knew they lived on the mountaintop. (In fact, Ruth’s mother admitted she moved her family to Montreat for the singular purpose of living near Billy Graham.)

Ruth opened the door that snowy day not knowing who was on its other side. (One rarely knows who waits on the other side of interruptions, though.) Ruth brought the cold children and desperate mother into her home and seated them in front of the fire, covering their shivering bodies with blankets. She offered snacks and drinks while her own son sat at a table watching the unexpected scene unfold.

Patricia wrote of this first encounter with Ruth:

I recall she was gentle and understanding, asking questions. She talked to my brothers and me as if we were neighbors and not intrusions. Nothing about her demeanor was disparaging or judgmental.

Patricia’s mother, plagued by poverty and mental illness, begged Ruth to keep her three children before entering a psychiatric treatment center. Ruth, having five of her own, could not keep the Cornwell children but did ensure their care into a foster home.

After this initial meeting on the Montreat mountaintop, Patricia found creative ways to encounter Ruth around the town. She writes of turning around when she saw the Graham car coming or proffering herself for car rides home (when she did not in fact need to go home). Ruth, too, sought Patricia. Their friendship deepened over the years in ways Cornwell recounts throughout her memoir.

I stop for you.

Here is the connection, though: Ruth stopped for Patricia. She loved her as their friendship flourished. Ruth’s generosity of time and word and resources and most of all kindness would later grant dignity to a shame-ridden young woman grappling with eating disorders and suicidal ideation. Ruth gave Patricia purpose, too, encouraging her to pursue an underdeveloped skill.

Here is what goodness does:

Ruth stopped.

Ruth kept stopping.

Ruth loved Patricia.

Ruth noticed Patricia’s writing gift and encouraged it.

Ruth’s influence changed Patricia’s life.

Patricia eventually wrote Ruth Graham’s biography, and her forensic thrillers became an international phenomenon. Perhaps you’ve read her novels.

Patricia wrote near the end of her memoir:

Many people I grew up around think I’ve made a mess of my life. They consider my books secular and perverse. Not to mention how they view me as a person. Divorced and bisexual. An alumnus of a treatment center. I didn’t measure up to the standards of my former Montreat neighbors. Ironically, the ones who didn’t judge me were Ruth and Billy (Graham).

The Way of Jesus

Ruth wasn’t simply being unusually kind, though she certainly was that. Ruth's habit of stopping for people reflected the generous heart of Jesus. We know Ruth loved Jesus, and I’m inclined to think she treated Patricia generously because of her love for him. She met a person in need of mercy and acted with compassion. Ruth was Christ’s representative to Patricia.

She opened a front door on a snowy afternoon and changed the course of a little girl’s life. There are some echos here, aren’t there, of Jesus stopping for those blind men in Jericho?

For whom can we stop today?

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I didn’t know how to seek him and find him and know him necessarily. But as I settled under the trees of my backyard with Bible in hand each morning, I felt led to the gospels. I read Matthew and Mark and Luke, and I loved John most of all because his words felt like those written by a wise but so-gentle grandfather. The Spirit’s message of seeking him and finding and knowing him in the gospels grew increasingly unmistakable, too. I would try to read the book of Acts and Paul’s letters and something didn’t feel quite right. I knew I needed to seek Jesus and to find him and know him in Matthew and Mark and Luke and John.

And as the summer months grew deeper and my body slowed and I found myself more attentive to the whispers of the Spirit, my soul was drawn to those moments in the gospels where Jesus reveals the good news of his kingdom through compassionate encounters of healing and restoring and transforming.

Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, hinted of Jesus’s compassionate encounters to come. Zechariah prophesied through the power of the Holy Spirit, “Praise be to the Lord, the God of Israel, because he has come to his people and redeemed them” (Luke 1:67-68).

Know me, the Spirit nudged as I read about the redeemed lives in the gospels of which Zechariah prophesied. This is me. This is who I am.

What follows are reflections of one such restored life. I hope it will give you, too, some soul sustenance.

Blind Bartimaeus

First, from the gospel of Matthew:

As Jesus and his disciples were leaving Jericho, a large crowd followed him. Two blind men were sitting by the roadside, and when they heard that Jesus was going by, they shouted, “Lord, Son of David, have mercy on us!” The crowd rebuked them and told them to be quiet, but they shouted all the louder, “Lord, Son of David, have mercy on us!” Jesus stopped and called them, “What do you want me to do for you?” he asked. “Lord,” they answered, “we want our sight.” Jesus had compassion on them and touched their eyes. Immediately they received their sight and followed him. (Matthew 20:29-34)

Then Mark, a second gospel author, adds a few more details about this same account with the blind men. Mark says one of the men is named Bartimaeus and in addition to being blind he is also a beggar. Bartimaeus is not only disabled but destitute.

So I sat in my backyard as I read Matthew and Mark’s accounts of men in need of physical mercy and tried to picture ancient Jericho. Here’s a current day image of the city from Google:

I wonder if on this day as the blind men called to Jesus if the city was dusty and hot like it looks here. Matthew says the crowd was unwelcoming to these men and I wonder if they were not just quieted but quieted in a moment that might have been very deeply important to them. Jesus doesn't appear to know them. They presumably have no social standing, no influence, no obvious way to repay him for his mercy. They are blind, poor, and overlooked.

I try still to understand blindness impairment and its implications both socially and culturally, today and on that day in Jericho. Blindness, like all disabilities, creates barriers that prohibit full inclusion in all sorts of ways. Here is a cruel barrier: the crowd seems to believe a disabled, destitute beggar isn’t worthy of Jesus’ attention.

I imagine some people that day — and any day — just ignoring the men completely which maybe is worse than demanding they be quiet? To be ignored? The crowd’s responses had to be degrading and dehumanizing. The message would maybe pierce: “You are not important enough for him,” is what they may have received. The two men may have been humiliated and ashamed, but they called louder to him.

And then what does Jesus do as he is on his way to Jerusalem where he knew he would spend the last week of his human life? (It’s not as if he was running errands or visiting friends or tidying house or whatever one did before one traveled to another city in the first century. He had something important to do, you know?) Jesus hears them. He hears the ones that the crowd is telling to be quiet. He hears the ones who others considered unimportant or at least not-important-enough for him. He hears the ones the crowd is rebuking and the ones who ask him for mercy.

“What do you want me to do for you?” he asked the blind men.

Yet Jesus hearing them didn’t mean just hearing them. It meant stopping for them. And then he touches the blind men. He restores their sight. And then they get up and want to follow him. Of course they want to follow him. What else would matter than being with the One who out of his mercy and goodness stopped for you? Who loved you when everyone else overlooked you and told you to be quiet?

Psychologist and author Diane Langberg says when we stop for another human being, when we listen, when we enter in and are patient, it says to that person, “You are worth my time. You are worth being known. You matter.”

That’s what Jesus did for these two men. He gave them worth and dignity and the gift of being seen before he healed their disability. He showed them they matter whether he granted physical healing or not.

You are the blind man.

And then I remembered my own body as I was transfixed by his mercy here, and the Spirit in his kindness nudged me: Laura, he whispered, you are the blind man. I stop for you, too.

I don't mean that I share these men's social or physical circumstances. I don't. Yet through their story, Jesus speaks into pain: I see your brokenness and shame and where you need my deepest healing and redemption. I stop for you, I stop for you, I stop for you.

My point is not about blindness, though the men’s ability to see after Jesus touched them is miraculous. My point is this: Jesus stopped for people all over the gospels. He came to his people and redeemed them” (Luke 1:67-68). He stopped for prostitutes and Pharisees and sick women and paralyzed men and for children. He stopped for the poor and for the rich and for the Roman Empire’s soldiers.

This is who he is. He stops. And he stops for all of us.

He stops for you.

He stops for you no matter what you’ve done, no matter who you are, no matter if you think you deserve his mercy or don’t deserve his mercy. He stops for the beggar and for all of us teachers, professors, pastors, musicians, students, real-estate agents, nurses, those of us unemployed.

He stops.

Later this week I’ll share a modern story of stopping-for-people. For those of us who follow Jesus, we are called to be like him; to stop. (Subscribe below.)

But for today, let the blind men’s encounter settle over you. May Jesus tell you now, wherever you are: I stop for you, too.

Because he does.

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My students’ whimsical interpretation of joy was sparked when I told them I would be attending a conference on the topic. I explained that a conference is a place where teachers go to learn, and that this one was about creating cultures that cultivate joy. I find my students to be the truest and most honest of experts, so I asked them to define joy for me. Their answers were comical yet also reminded me how elusive and abstract the concept can be. (Most  answered, “It’s happiness,” or more often, “She is the girl with blue hair.”)

So I turned to someone with more theological knowledge: my father, New Testament scholar Scot McKnight. Our work together in A Church Called Tov and Pivot focuses on organizational culture and resisting what is toxic, and I wanted to know what joy means for someone who follows Christ. I needed to be especially clear on what joy is as we seek it and build cultures around it.

His answer surprised me.

Joy and the Soil of School Culture

In the New Testament, my dad taught me, joy and suffering have a funny habit of appearing together. Joy is not happiness, he said. It is not a fleeting feeling. Instead, joy is a deep-rooted disposition or an inner orientation. It comes from living a larger kingdom story that is grounded in the lordship of Jesus and connected to community. Joy can develop and deepen even in hardship and suffering, and sometimes spiritual formation and joy come as a result of suffering. It’s this lasting joy that we hope to embed in the cultures of our schools. 

In the New Testament, my dad taught me, joy and suffering have a funny habit of appearing together.

But like joy, culture isn’t always easy to define. To make the culture conversation more tangible, we developed a metaphor modeled after the peach tree currently growing in my backyard. Imagine a tree with visible fruit (the peaches), but beneath the surface lies the soil teeming with life and nutrients and with contaminants, too. In our metaphor, the peaches represent visible cultural experiences. They represent what students, teachers, and visitors feel and observe. Now below the ground is the soil which represents the invisible but powerful and formative aspects of culture: values, relationships, power structures, habits, and expectations.

In my own kindergarten classroom, one of our "peaches" is the sacred rule of No Budging. To five-year-olds, cutting in line is a moral offense and the most serious rule violation. But that rule and the ways I have to enforce it with care and fairness grows from something deeper. My students and I tend the soil with rules. We tend it with line leaders and caboose positions, with relationships, and with routines that prioritize community and belonging and responsibility. We tend it with kindness and with logic. (“Would you want someone to do that to you?” I stare at them.) The visible experience of not budging one another in line is the fruit of intentionally-tended classroom soil. It’s not always perfect. We had a brouhaha just yesterday when the line leader position was absconded by a Student Without a Job. We had to stop and talk and do more soil tending before proceeding to gym class. This takes time. It can be exhausting. But I find culture-tending matters because it produces fruit.

Unfortunately, just as soil can be life-giving, it can also be toxic. Poor soil may be over-fertilized, undernourished, or contaminated by erosion or disease. In the same way, school cultures can become polluted with invisible but harmful elements. For example, negativity, fear, isolation, lack of trust, or competition can seep into cultures which then influence leadership decisions and conversations and school relationships. Or well-meaning adults may remove opportunities for students to struggle, lose, or feel uncomfortable. This is a contaminant, too. And these contaminants may not be immediately visible, but their effects invade meetings and meetings-after-the-meeting. Their pollutants invade staff morale and trickle their way to student behavior and social and emotional wellness. I am speaking broadly here of multiple examples, and each could be intimately explored.

To cultivate joy, first cultivate culture by infusing joy into it. At the same time, actively resist what is toxic. To do both, school leaders must intentionally tend soil by determining cultural priorities. 

Tending the Soil with Tov

In both A Church Called Tov and Pivot, my father and I describe a framework for cultivating healthy culture based on the Hebrew word Tov, which means “goodness.” In the opening chapter of Genesis, God calls the light, land, sea, animals, and everything he created “tov.” Something can be tov if it is life-giving, beautiful, or morally good God himself is Tov, and He calls us to be Tov as well.

In educational settings, pursuing Tov means seeking practices and creating patterns and making decisions that are grounded in the Lord’s goodness. Tov is what creates healthy ecosystems in schools. Tov-infused soil encourages peaches of joy to grow because joy flourishes in goodness. 

Tov is what creates healthy ecosystems in schools. Tov-infused soil encourages peaches of joy to grow because joy flourishes in goodness. 

Consider your own character here. I’ve learned to consider education from a deeper place of who I am becoming and where the Spirit nudges daily or hourly.

Here’s a soil-tending example.

The leadership of my district infuses “fun” into the soil of our culture. The team routinely plans whimsical events for staff, at which t-shirts are thrown across cafeterias and staff are assigned teams for healthy trivia competition about Chicago and local district history. My superintendent and assistant superintendent are known to throw water balloons from the junior high roof, and they show up unannounced in classrooms just to yell, “What is up, kindergarten?!” They never articulate “fun” as a core value, but it’s there. It’s absorbed in the roots. And the fruit of this intentional soil-tending is staff and student engagement and relationships marked by warmth and belonging. The fruit looks like staff who want to come to work each day. 

This doesn’t mean ignoring challenges. Cultures of joy are not perfect. Rather, they are marked by resilience and intentionality; by leaders and teachers who see joy as part of their mission even in the difficulty. It is marked by leaders and teachers who accept the difficulty and grow through it and then teach students to do the same.

Joy as a Kingdom Practice

At its core, joy in education is not about rewards, themed parties, or even great test scores. It is not about bulletin boards or lesson plans. It is not about forcing trust in shallow ways. It is instead about relational presence—being known, seen, and valued within a larger story. It is teaching students to accept struggle and staying with them as they do. In my classroom, this looks like learning each student’s unique personality, honoring the ways my students are made, and investing in relationships that go deeper than my content delivery. Skillful teaching matters, but it is not sufficient. Joy requires relational soil. It requires relationships in the struggle.

And this, too, is Tov.

Reflection and Practice

If you want to tend or transform school culture, start by honestly assessing the current soil. What kind of fruit do you wish to grow? Is joy one of those fruits? If so, which nutrients exist and which are currently missing? Can you name the invisible forces harming your soil?

I’d like to suggest to educators here (and parents) that removing struggle makes a culture sick. Students need to struggle to grow, and they need attunement as challenges happen. This is just one example, but it is perhaps the most pressing issue facing our nation’s schools. 

Here are two reflective questions I use in professional development sessions with education leaders:

1. What kind of “peaches” do you want your culture to produce?
   Is it joy? Belonging? Curiosity? Justice? Collaboration? Perseverance?

2. What nutrients need to be added to the soil to make that happen?
   Consider adding spiritual practices, compassion, acceptance of uncomfortable feelings, restorative language, or playfulness. Think relationally. Think systemically. Think personal growth.

In closing, one final comment: healthy cultures don’t happen by accident. They are cultivated over time with careful, patient, and intentional soil-tending. Start small. Stay grounded in goodness. 

Trust the mysterious power of joy to transform schools and classrooms.

Published for Baylor University’s Center for School Leadership Insights

Memoir

Good Soil

A tender memoir by about identity, belonging, and tending what is rooting. Good Soil is a book about patience and presence—about what happens when we notice growth, even in unexpected places. This one inspired me to plant and garden and propagate the plants all over my house — and it added depth to our peach tree metaphor of Pivot.

Unreasonable Hospitality

More than a book about the restaurant business, this is a philosophy of caring about people. Will Guidara shows how small, intentional acts of generosity can transform culture—and how excellence paired with kindness creates spaces people never forget. It’s such a fun read, and I got to dine at The Terrace Cafe inside MoMA just after finishing it. Guidara’s influence on elevating small details for incredible guest experiences was undeniable. Notice the glassware, the art, the attention to every detail.

Awake

I have some mixed thoughts about this one, but there’s no denying that writes with honesty, humor, and heart about what it means to wake up—to ourselves, our faith, and the lives we are actually living. This memoir feels like a companion for anyone learning how to rebuild with courage and grace, and I devoured it. It’s really really good. If you want to know why I struggled to add this one… well, let’s talk more.

All the Way to the River

writes a raw, reflective meditation on love and loss and addiction and recovery. I again have mixed thoughts about this one, but like Awake — this memoir is to be devoured. I love a story of restoration, even if restoration looks different than my own faith tradition.

History and Cultural Analysis

Becoming the Pastor’s Wife

tells a deeply researched and personal story about how women’s callings were narrowed and how faithfulness was quietly redefined. This book helped me name what so many women feel but struggle to articulate, offering clarity without bitterness and truth without cruelty. And Beth is what she writes: kind, gracious, hospitable, truthful. I was so happy to meet her in person in Waco this fall!

Mental Health

The Anxious Generation

Clear-eyed and urgent, this book helped me better understand the emotional landscape in which our kids are growing. Without exaggeration, my co-workers now roll their eyes when I mention this book because I don’t stop talking about it. combines research and compassion and it’s a must-read for Americans.

Fiction

The Correspondent

I read very little fiction this year, but I found this novel by Virginia Evans to be quiet in the best way—thoughtful, and intimate, written through letters. The Correspondent was just delightful, and I fell so in love with its main character Sybil Van Antwerp.

The God of the Woods

Again, I read very little fiction this year but this one was atmospheric and haunting, and I love a good mystery. It’s set in the Adirondack Mountains, and it provides a good dose of compelling melancholy if you’re in the mood.

Reading is always a shared conversation. Which books would you add to your own best-of list for 2025?

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I froze looking at this photo. The United States government considers this man inconsequential, I thought. This is a gross perversion of power, right there on the hard cold ground of Home Depot aisle ten.

For the photo echoes with the crippling shame of being profiled as a criminal and seized by the powers of ICE. It echoes with the pain of being told you don’t belong because your skin is maybe the wrong color. It echoes with injustice that transforms into trauma.

And then I remembered another scene—a holy one two thousand years ago. It is this moment in the gospel of Matthew: When Jesus saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd (Matthew 9:36).

My dad (theologian and scholar Scot McKnight) says this word compassion is no ordinary one. It’s a vital word in the Old Testament and in the Gospels where it—compassion—is used only of Jesus (and also of a figure in one parable that stands for God). I love this, too: this word compassion is sometimes translated as deeply moved and is connected to restorative action as a response to being deeply moved. In other words, Jesus did not just feel sorry about human suffering. He did not just say, “Oh, that’s so sad and I feel really bad for you,” and then go walk across the lake. He felt empathy and sympathy for a person; the word describes Jesus’s emotional response to the pain of others. And, therefore, he did something about the suffering he saw.

What did he do in response to human suffering? Jesus wept and healed and preached the Good News of his kingdom and restored those who were suffering. Matthew says he took our infirmities and carried away our diseases (8:17). I mean, he entered into human suffering so much that he gave his entire life for humanity.

And this same truth lingers as it comforts through the ages: the King of the kingdom is deeply moved by the suffering of those who lack social and economic power. How good it is to know he cares.

And yes, I believe he is deeply moved by the helplessness and vulnerability of this profiled man held on the ground of Home Depot.

Because compassion is who he showed himself to be.

JESUS’S COMPASSION FOR THE FIRST CENTURY’S SUFFERING

Recently immersed in the Bible Project’s video series on Matthew, I was captured by a sketch that shows Jesus’s compassion for the first century’s suffering. Here is a screenshot:

Jesus announced his kingdom, and then Matthew follows with these nine life-transforming examples of compassion. All involve the redemption of suffering, wounded, weak, diseased, and disabled people. He brought life to the dead and calmed the wind and waves of the Sea of Galilee. Jesus pronounced a diseased man clean and exorcised evil spirits from others, he healed paralysis and fevers, and he forgave sins which maybe was the most life-giving, healing act of all.

Jesus moved toward fear and pain and spoke exactly what each of these people needed to hear as he taught and healed them. Matthew says he went through “all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the gospel of the kingdom, and healing every kind of disease and every kind of sickness” (Matthew 9:35). I imagine Matthew himself—the gospel author and tax collector—would have been previously excluded and now invited to follow Jesus and receive the fullness of his grace.

I imagine another circle in the midst of Matthew’s nine in the BibleProject’s sketch—-a circle that includes an undocumented immigrant woman and her younger brother. They left Mexico to escape drug cartel violence and are haunted now by ICE (Read more.). They are quite literally without status except when the United States exploits their labor. What would Jesus say to this traumatized family? How would he comfort them and what healing would he offer? How would he respond?

Jesus offered his kingdom to the ones easy to ignore and to the ones considered least important by the Roman Empire. As it turns out, those who are profiled and traumatized and considered society’s lowest mattered very much to the King of the kingdom. His kingdom powers liberated and brought holistic redemption to anyone willing to receive it.

And then Jesus prepared his disciples with a mission: to go and do the same, to go and be the same.

Go, he said. Go teach and preach and invite and include and heal.

How desperately we still need his compassion and mercy.

THE KINGDOM BELONGS TO THE UNDOCUMENTED

As ICE raids happen, as day care workers are seized in front of children, as agents smash car windows with assault rifles, as day laborers are tackled in Home Depot aisles—our immigrant neighbors must feel small, afraid, forgotten, unworthy, unprotected, vulnerable, outside. Many of them left home countries seeking refuge in America and now find themselves hated and targeted, lacking access to education and health care.

Today’s immigrants fit the very pattern of people to whom Jesus sent his disciples on mission. They fit the pattern of the ones the empire exploited and overlooked as unimportant and unworthy. My dad says the people who Jesus blessed were neither the powerful nor the wealthy. They were instead people without status. They were people whose status was determined by those who had power to decide its standards. These are the ones God values and blesses.

Jesus taught his disciples in the Sermon on the Mount, “Blessed are those who grieve, for they shall be consoled” (Matthew 5:4). In other words, he prepared his disciples on the mountain for their mission: go comfort the mourning. The kingdom would be the blessing for those in pain. The suffering would understand how desperately they needed him and his kingdom’s restoration.

I pause here to consider: Would today’s immigrants have responded to Jesus’s invitations and followed him in the first century? Would they have lived up to what he called people to do? Maybe. Maybe not. Immigrants are no different than you and me. Some of us follow him, some of us do not. But I have to think the undocumented would feel comforted by his welcome and invited by his mercy and grace. They would feel seen. They would have a chance to follow him; to turn to him.

I have to think those sitting in ICE detention centers know what is painfully wrong in America and yearn for political mercy and relief from fear and mourning and suffering. They are people of character who have families and offer goodness to their neighborhood and to our country. They work faithfully and love their children.

Good news, I imagine Jesus would say to the arrested day-care worker and so many others like her. The kingdom is for you. Follow me.

TO WE WHO ARE PRIVILEGED

To the privileged and to those with socioeconomic power—-myself included—-and to those of us quick to comment and categorize: Jesus is the great see-er of the lowly and the great suffering reliever.

He—-the Seer-of-the-Unseen—-treated those who political powers deemed unworthy with dignity and honor. He invited them and included them and healed them and restored them. He sent an invitation to those who were not invited.

Turning to him is essential, yes, but following him comes after the beauty of his invitation.

Come, he still says. You belong. There is right now a greater kingdom ruled by a greater King who promises to reign with the full mercy of justice. This mess will one day all be restored.

And discipleship means we go and do the same. It means we treat the immigrant with dignity and honor, too. We serve a king who reigns with justice, and that means we do the same.

LIVE THE SERMON’S TRANSFORMATION

Jesus challenges his disciples to love neighbors in new ways, doesn’t he? Doing what he calls us to do means to be remade from the inside. It calls for kingdom communities to live the Sermon’s transformation. We should see suffering and feel suffering and move to relieve it.

I don’t always know exactly what that looks like and Jesus calls his disciples in different ways, but I think Pope Leo suggests a good place to start: by allowing clergy into ICE centers to minister to the detained.

Here’s another response, and you can read more here:

Since federal immigration agents began ramping up operations in Chicago communities, residents have come together to support their neighbors. In Albany Park, a group of mothers and educators recognized the need for assistance and initiated what they call the walking school bus. 80 to 100 kids get picked up each day.

If we follow Jesus, we must actually reckon with what he taught his disciples and subsequently did for the poor and unimportant. “Be compassionate,” Jesus taught, “as your Father is also compassionate.”

And maybe that’s the Good News for now: the One who comforted and embodied compassion has not changed. He still sends disciples and the Pope and walking school buses to relieve suffering—your suffering, my suffering, and the immigrant’s suffering.

His invitations still fall gracefully on those of us who thought we were outside all along. His invitations include our scared, lonely, and vulnerable undocumented neighbor.

The empire may still overlook, reject, and divide, but the King on the mountain still knows all of us by name. The kingdom of heaven still opens its doors to those standing outside.

May we—by his grace and goodness—go mercifully and do the same.

Author’s Note

After my recent essay—Did Willow Creek Skip Yom Kippur Again?—several readers asked why I drew a connection between a Christian church and the Jewish Day of Atonement. This follow-up post reflects on that question and explores what Christians might learn from Israel’s sacred rhythm of repentance, confession, and renewal.

In the days since I published Did Willow Creek Skip Yom Kippur Again?, several readers have asked why I referenced Yom Kippur in a conversation about the church. It’s a fair and important question, and I’m grateful for it.

My intent is to draw attention to the posture of repentance that both Jewish and Christian faiths share—and that evangelical churches too often neglect.

Christians can learn a profound lesson from Israel’s practice of Yom Kippur. We have our own season of Lent, yes, but Yom Kippur models something deeper and more communal—a way to signal our commitment to self-reflection, confession, repentance, and lament in moments of moral failure.

Our Jewish contemporaries faithfully walk this sacred path each year.

Justice and the Posture of Repentance

Justice means honoring the dignity of every human being as made in the image of God.

That means confession and lament ought to be normalized; that repentance be modeled from the pulpit; that we hear leaders say, “We got this wrong. I got this wrong.”

Justice means creating worship spaces where lament and communal grief are expected when harm is done within the body of Christ.

That is why I invoked the solemn practices of Yom Kippur when I mentioned Willow Creek.

It isn’t about borrowing another faith’s rituals—it’s about learning from a rhythm God established long ago, a rhythm of truth-telling and restoration that can breathe life back into a broken church.

The Deeper Meaning of Yom Kippur

Yom Kippur is not a “holiday” in the lighthearted sense. It is the Day of Atonement—a solemn day of truth-telling, confession, and repair.

It invites a community to look honestly at itself, name what is broken, and reckon with systemic complicity. Only then can reconciliation and grace take root.

This sacred rhythm is not foreign to Christianity; it lies at the heart of Jesus’ own message: “Repent and believe the good news.”

When I speak of Willow Creek “skipping Yom Kippur,” I mean skipping that sacred rhythm—skipping communal humility and confession before planning celebrations for a milestone anniversary.

A Pattern Worth Naming

Willow Creek’s story over the past several years has included repeated opportunities to stop, lament, and repair harm with those it wounded.

In 2018, when the allegations against Bill Hybels became public, Willow Creek could have entered a communal season of repentance and sorrow—its own Yom Kippur moment. Instead, it moved swiftly toward damage control and image repair.

In 2021, when questions about Hybels resurfaced, humor and applause replaced lament at a member meeting.

And now, in 2025, public gratitude was extended to Hybels on a global stage without acknowledgement of those he harmed.

Each time, the pattern has been the same: celebration without confession, remembrance without repentance.

My use of Yom Kippur names that pattern—not to shame, but to awaken.

Yom Kippur reminds us that the path to healing is paved with truth and contrition, not applause and denial.

Trauma and the Cost of Celebration Without Repentance

I recently read Toni Morrison’s haunting novel Beloved, in which she depicts the psychological effects of slavery on a human being.

Slavery did not end with emancipation—it lived on in the body and soul of the freed, in memory, trauma, and tormenting silence.

So it is for survivors of spiritual abuse. Trauma still lives in the body, and it is ravaged by celebration and remembrance without restoration.

Justice means allowing them—the traumatized and harmed—to define what restoration looks like.

The sacred rhythm of Yom Kippur offers a communal way to do just that: to pause, confess, and grieve before moving forward.

What the Church Can Learn

True confession does not weaken the church; it strengthens it. It is how we become whole.

Christians can and should learn from Israel’s example.

Yom Kippur is an annual reminder that repentance and renewal are not private acts but communal commitments.

Christians have our Lenten season, but we might also mark special moments—after a scandal, a reckoning, an anniversary—with liturgies of lament and truth-telling that do not include applause.

When we do, we participate in the same redemptive rhythm God gave Israel.

The Invitation

I hold deep respect for my Jewish friends who faithfully observe Yom Kippur.

My reference to it is not theological adoption for Christian churches but an invitation to goodness—for the communal and individual soul.

Its ancient wisdom offers something our world desperately needs: a model of how to name sin honestly and seek forgiveness together.

Our culture is hungry for trustworthy leaders. It wants to see a church that can tell the truth about itself and repair relationships with those it wounded.

If Willow Creek—and the broader church—can recover that rhythm, it will rediscover the freedom that comes from repentance and repair.

There is goodness (Tov) waiting on the other side—for the wounded, for the repentant, and for the community that chooses honesty over image.

The signs of toxicity in church culture—especially toward women—are often subtle at first, but together they create a pattern of control, silencing, and harm.

When we say that a Tov (goodness-shaped) church empowers women, we’re talking about something deeper than simply including them. It’s about forming a culture that reflects God’s goodness — one that restores dignity, nurtures gifts, and resists systems of harm or hierarchy.

Below is a comprehensive framework for reflection and discussion.

A Tov church doesn’t merely allow women to serve — it expects and celebrates their full participation in God’s mission. Empowerment is the fruit of goodness. Where truth, empathy, and justice dwell, women have space to flourish.

It is the evening of Yom Kippur as I write these words. My Jewish friends are preparing for their holiest day of the calendar year. They are preparing for the annual Day of Atonement, a day on which Israel tells the truth about itself and then by God’s grace receives forgiveness and the fruits of reconciliation. My colleague Dena, before she left school today, instructed me: “Don’t say happy Yom Kippur to me. This is not a happy holiday.” (I have much to learn about the sacred ancient holiday.) 

My dad (theologian Scot McKnight) explained the rich history of Yom Kippur in a book we co-authored titled A Church Called Tov. I summarize his teaching and writing here:

God guided Israel to memorialize its finest hours. So still today we get a holiday for the purification and forgiveness called Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Yom Kippur is the congregational act of focused self-denial to concentrate the mind on God, on their year of sinning, and the grace of God’s forgiveness and reconciliation. 

One of Israel’s “finest hours” was a day devoted to confession, to repentance, to sacrifice, to purification, to forgiveness. Along with ordinary run-of-the-mill sacrifices connected to sins, Israel set aside one whole calendar event to recall their sin, their tov (good) God, their sin, their tov God again, and their forgiveness.

 Yom Kippur’s ancient rhythms beckon the soul towards confession and repentance as essential spiritual practices in which God’s forgiveness is rooted. I am reminded of the words of the apostle Mark, who recounts the start of Jesus’ public ministry in his gospel: “Jesus went into Galilee,” Mark writes, “proclaiming the good news of God.” And then: “The time has come,” Jesus said. “Repent and believe the good news” (Mark 1:14-15). For Jesus—and for John the Baptizer before him—repentance intermingles and intertwines with faith. 

So essential is repentance to faith that Jesus and the apostle Mark and now my friend Dena and Jews all over the world recognize Yom Kippur every calendar year. 

The healing practices of Yom Kippur are why John Maxwell’s words at Willow Creek’s recent Global Leadership Summit stand between the church and those it wounded.

I’ll address Maxwell and the GLS shortly.

First, a brief summary of the Willow Creek tragedy.

Bill Hybels and Willow Creek

In 2018 the Chicago Tribune published allegations of sexual misconduct against Willow Creek’s founding pastor Bill Hybels. The allegations were made by multiple women, including Hybels’ former colleagues. Hybels denied the claims, and the church’s internal investigation was criticized as inadequate and biased. He retired early, and the entire elder board later resigned, acknowledging they failed to accept the truth about Hybels. Despite leadership changes and efforts to rebuild, Willow Creek is still today criticized for its initial response and lingering lack of transparency.

I believe today’s criticism partly comes from a missing Yom Kippur period in 2018 — a period when Willow Creek could have corporately mourned its systemic complicity. Instead, confession and repentance were cheapened by the centering of Willow’s leaders and their resignations instead of the names of the mistreated and wounded: Vonda Dyer, Pat Baranowski, Keri Ladouceur, Nancy Beach, Nancy Ortberg, Julia Williams, and others.

Willow Creek could have confessed and repented. It could have centered the victims and listened to their pain. 

2018 would not be the last time Willow Creek had a need for a Yom Kippur moment. The next time would come three years later.

Why is Bill Hybels’ name rarely mentioned?

During a members-only core meeting in 2021, Willow’s pastors were asked why Bill Hybels’ name is rarely mentioned. The question—sacred and delicate then as it is now—was met with jokes, applause, and praise. Abuse was minimized as “a polarizing reality,” and Hybels was called a “once-in-a-generation leader.” 

I am not denying Hybels’ leadership ability, and he may have well been a once-in-a-generation leader, but the problem was and still is this: the public comment came without mention of his victims. No repentance was offered. It was a moment that re-wounded the wounded. It was another missed Yom Kippur moment that started in 2018.

Yes, Bill Hybels’ name should be mentioned—but it should be mentioned with the heaviness and weight of Yom Kippur—with truth and with practices that lead to atonement. This would be the way of Tov, the Hebrew word for “goodness.”

And then four years later another missed moment happened in August 2025, again on Willow Creek’s stage.

John Maxwell and the 2025 Global Leadership Summit

I did not attend the 2025 Global Leadership Summit at Willow Creek Community Church, but I have friends who did and heard these words from its main stage: “I would be incredibly remiss if I would not say that every one of us in this room today are a part of the calling and the heart that (Hybels) had to train leaders around the world. And I’ll never forget it. I’ll always be grateful, Bill! Thank you, buddy!” 

The comments were made by speaker and leadership expert John Maxwell, who spoke to thousands of GLS attendees at Willow Creek. Let’s be clear about what happened: he stood on Willow’s stage on the horizon of its 50th anniversary and publicly honored and thanked Bill Hybels on behalf of everyone in the room.

Maxwell’s words and the resulting applause drew visceral reactions from my friends, from Hybels’ victims when they heard, and from many who have followed Willow’s story. Speaking those words on Willow’s platform are a misuse of power. They are a misuse of the responsibility Maxwell was given at the time, and they legitimate a circulating false narrative. Most importantly, Maxwell’s words retraumatized and re-wounded those who were victimized by Hybels.

Again, Hybels’ leadership was praised. His legacy was praised, and so was his vision and his impact. Those are undeniable. I am not arguing with his ability or his influence. His name should be mentioned, but not with a lighthearted “thank you buddy” comment.

The problem for me remains in 2025:

Maxwell made no mention of Hybels’ victims. No sorrow. No repentance. No truth-telling.

No mercy for the wounded, no centering of their pain.

Honoring Hybels without acknowledging the devastation he caused is not Tov leadership. It could be called betrayal. This wasn’t just a misstep by John Maxwell and the GLS. It was the celebration of a name held in the absence of confession or remembrance of his victims. It was a 50th-anniversary deferential comment that hurt people. It repeated Willow’s skip-Yom-Kippur pattern that started in 2018.

How contrary to the way of Jesus.

Jesus and the Outsider

The Gospels are full of accounts of how Jesus responded when he encountered society’s rejected. Not only did Jesus fully see and know the broken, he stopped and tended to them. He stopped for the hurting, he cared for the wounded, and he healed through compassion and supernatural grace.

He is our example. He is the merciful, loving One we follow. In him we find complete healing and grace.

In fact, Jesus joined John’s baptism of repentance. The gospels record Jesus going to Jerusalem for high holidays, so  we should assume Jesus participated in Yom Kippur. If Jesus did, should not we? 

Freedom in Yom Kippur

And on Yom Kippur we find freedom: freedom to remember the past, to confess sin, and to honor the wounded. We find freedom to acknowledge and thank a gifted leader and to tell the truth about the lasting effects of his sin. In Yom Kippur we find freedom to fully confess our complicity in participating in a system that allowed its leaders to abuse power.

In Yom Kippur we offer our sincerest lament.

Until Willow Creek and persons on its platform choose the path of Tov, the harm done will echo louder than the anniversary celebrations.

I wish to end with this: 

The good news of the Gospel is its grace for all of us—for the wounded and for the ones who did the wounding. Jesus offers his glorious forgiveness and healing to every last one of us. True freedom is found within the ancient practices of Yom Kippur that lead to restoration and redemption of all people and all things.