Because I did not receive good biblical formation as a child, I landed in an evangelical college functionally illiterate about Scripture. Sadly, my lack of knowledge did not stop me from being insufferable. I would say things like, “I only read the parts of the Bible that work for me.” This was, of course, a lie: I didn’t read the Bible at all. I was just trying to show that I was better than my backward evangelical classmates. ’Ultimately, I was a reflection of the ecclesial culture in which I’d been formed. I didn’t hear clergy or Sunday school teachers in my home parish dismiss or belittle Scripture, because I didn’t hear them say much about it at all.

God in his mercy refused to abandon me to my whims, but sent me a priest who unashamedly, enthusiastically, intelligibly, and joyfully preached and taught Holy Scripture. Being shepherded by someone who loved the Bible taught me something no one had ever shared with me before: that reading and interpreting Scripture was not just good for the life of faith but is a source of inexhaustible joy. This completely changed my encounter with the Bible, and my faith life.

So why do some priests fail to do this? Part of it is a formation problem: at my Episcopal seminary I was required to take only three Bible classes, with no biblical language requirement. Is it any wonder that our clergy don’t feel equipped to teach the Bible to laity? But I think the bigger challenge may be fear: fear of getting it wrong, fear that it won’t be worth it, even fear of what one might find in the Bible. It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God. But perfect love casts out fear, and a priest who has learned to love the Bible has a responsibility to offer people the joy into which God invites us in his Word.

Preach with Boldness

Given the liturgical context of our tradition, a 45-minute expository sermon with lots of exegesis is not possible (and may not be desirable). But this must not be an excuse to ignore the Bible from the pulpit. Too many preachers in mainline churches treat the assigned lectionary readings as anecdotes made available to the preacher to make a favored point.

Preaching well is hard. Preaching while bound to the shape and content of the passage without forcing it into a favorite topic or simple diatribe is extra hard. But we owe it to the people of God. When we are called to preach, we are entrusted with the responsibility of opening the Scriptures and making Jesus known to his disciples, as he modeled on the road to Emmaus.

Priests shouldn’t complain to parishioners (from the pulpit or otherwise) about the assigned lectionary passage or how hard it was to prepare the sermon. It isn’t your parishioners’ job to make you feel better about a half-baked sermon. It is one thing to say, “This passage is challenging, and we will look at it carefully together.” It is another to say, “Paul is being sexist” or “Jesus isn’t being very loving,” both of which I’ve heard in real sermons by clergy. The first shows a healthy respect for Scripture as an ancient text with its own context, tells the congregation that it is okay to feel confused, and promises guidance. The second two are flip, dismissive, borderline blasphemous, and lazy.

Preach with the Bible in your hand (or at least open in your pulpit). This demonstrates to the congregation that you are not an authority on Scripture, but are under the authority of Scripture. Ask your parishioners to read along in their Bibles, and make sure you have Bibles in the pews for them to open. Do not shy away from difficult passages, but put in the hard work to uncover the good news that speaks from every page of Scripture. Show them both that you are a preacher who loves and reveres God’s word, and that this Word for them.

Read within the Communion of Saints

Few parish priests are true experts on Scripture, and even those priests who also have doctoral degrees in Old Testament or Christian theology and moonlight as academics are not authorities over Scripture. All of us, regardless of education, are bound by the authority of Scripture, and of the church. Our job is not to share our brilliance with parishioners, but to help them learn to interpret for themselves, within the devotional life of the community. The Bible doesn’t have one perfect interpretation, but there are many wrong interpretations. Often, these are the interpretations we like best, because they make things neat or tidy or affirm what we have already decided we believe.

The best way to avoid this pitfall is to read within the Christian tradition, looking to the interpretations of the saints who have gone before, and teaching only within the bounds of the Creeds of the church. This limits what we can say, but it is a limit that is freeing, not stagnating.

When faced with a difficult or befuddling passage in the lectionary or in a parish Bible study, the priest should resist the urge to find the easy out, and should instead look to the Church Triumphant for help. We have more than 2,000 years of faithful Christians who have read, marked, learned, and inwardly digested nearly every passage of the Bible. How did Origen, Athanasius, Augustine, and the Cappadocians interpret these passages? What did the Reformers think and write about these issues? How did Dietrich Bonhoeffer, C.S. Lewis, or Julian of Norwich hear these words? Look especially to those whose faith and devotion you admire; those whose lives reflect the goodness and holiness of the risen Christ. None of these thinkers have the monopoly on truth, and neither do we. But we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, and we can call upon them to help us love the texts they loved and for which they lived.

Teach with Courage

When I was in seminary, my field education supervisor told me: “If you ever see the lectionary skip around in Jeremiah, it is probably because there was a prostitute in there.” I generally like the Revised Common Lectionary, but can’t help but notice that it is quite squeamish on issues of sex, bodily functions, or anything that might be make one uncomfortable. Not every difficult or confusing passage of Scripture needs to be talked about from the pulpit — sometimes 15 minutes is just enough time for a preacher to do more harm than good — but they do need to be taught. A priest who only preaches and teaches the “uplifting” parts of Holy Scripture tells the congregation that there are parts of the Bible that are okay to ignore or that can be written off.

It also tells parishioners that hard questions, doubt, grief, and darkness have no place in the church, and that such questions and issues are best left unaddressed. If we cannot handle the violence described in the Psalms or in Judges, how are we going to confront the violence in our world or in our hearts?

It takes courage to guide people into the parts of the Bible that are confusing, frightening, or strange and to remind them that, no matter how mystifying or challenging, all of Scripture is God’s Word and is guided and given by the Holy Spirit. The Fathers saw these difficult passages as skandelon, stumbling blocks, given to us by God to push us deeper and to call us higher. The Bible is not meant to comfort and affirm us, but to stretch and change us. Preaching and teaching hard texts with courage, seriousness, and reverence teaches people that God’s Word is trustworthy, even in their darkest moments. It also shows them that their pastor and their church have the courage to walk alongside them, to help, guide, and equip them to face the challenges and stumbling blocks we find in Scripture, in life, and beyond.

In the church in which I was raised, there was not an expectation or even an opportunity for deep biblical reading and interpretation among any age group. We heard Scripture read in the liturgy, and I remember learning the parables of Jesus in Sunday School, but reading the Bible was not something we talked about. Because I spent my whole life in the same church, I didn’t realize anything was missing anything until I landed at an evangelical university. I met students who not only knew the Bible but had whole passages memorized. They could rattle off the books of the Bible, in order, faster than I could read them off a list. It was a brave new world.

Because I was 18, and because I was a fool (but I repeat myself), I didn’t learn to love the Bible during college. It took many more years before Scripture became central to my life of faith and my practices of personal devotion. Now, as a priest in the Episcopal Church, teaching the Bible — and helping others come to love the Bible — is probably the single most crucial part of my vocation. Just as there is no such thing as a solitary Christian, there is no such thing as a Christian who is not steeped, formed, and shaped by the Word of God. Holy Scripture must be the air we breathe and the water in which we swim. It is the soil out of which our liturgy, theology, and mission need to grow. It is the primary way that we who desire to be disciples of Jesus Christ come to encounter him, not as an artifact of history, but as the risen, living, and reigning Son of God.

But as I know firsthand, loving Scripture isn’t something that just happens, and it doesn’t always come easily. We have a Bible-reading problem in American Christianity. Too many mainline churches, preachers, and teachers ignore the Bible at best, or treat it as something awkward, embarrassing, or as a “text of terror.” Other Christian traditions are adamant about the importance of the Bible, but too often demonstrate this devotion by using it as a cudgel to beat those who do not conform to an agreed-upon doctrine.

Neither you nor I can solve all these problems; this kind can be driven out only through prayer. But I can describe my experience. In this first essay, I’ll describe the ways in which patient mentors taught me, as an adult laywoman, not only to read and interpret, but genuinely to love the Bible, and will attempt to provide some guidance for those who want to know God better through his Word, but do not know how to start. In a second essay, I’ll describe the ways in which I attempt to pass this gift on to my congregation, and ideas for clergy who want to deepen the biblical culture in their parish.

Take Up and Read

This should be obvious, but it is impossible to love the Bible without reading it. This applies to clergy and laity alike: to any person who desires to be a disciple of Jesus Christ. Many Christians simply are not in the habit of reading the Bible. Some would love to cultivate this habit, but don’t know how to start. I find this is often not from lack of interest, but from a fear of doing it wrong. I am often approached by parishioners who say, “I want to get into reading the Bible. Which commentary should I get?” or “Do you have a good study Bible you recommend?” There seems to me be an unspoken fear among many Episcopal laypersons that they cannot hope to read the Bible without some expert guidance. Often this comes from a healthy desire not to misinterpret, misuse, or abuse God’s Word. But it also seems somewhat gnostic, as though there is secret key to unlocking the truth of Scripture that is withheld from the regular person in the pews.

My first piece of advice, then, is always the same: just start reading, without the anxiety of whether you are reading “right.” Skip the commentaries (especially anything online, which is almost certain to do more harm than good), and if possible, read a Bible without study or translator notes. A Bible laid out in single column, like a regular book, is ideal, but any Bible you have will do.

Pick a story that is a page-turner: something like the Exodus from Egypt, the sweeping love story in Ruth, Paul’s seafaring journey in Acts, or the striking poetry of the love hymn in Philippians. Read slowly and turn the words over in your mind. While you’re at it, become comfortable underlining and making notes in the margin. Create a record of your journey in Scripture. Underline phrases that strike you and write down questions that occur to you. Engage with the text in writing while you engage with it in your mind and heart. Journaling and wide-margin Bibles are great for this, but with the right pen or pencil you can take notes in any Bible. As you read and annotate, don’t worry about “what it means” or what the “right” interpretation is or how to “apply it to your life.” Simply listen to what it says and how. Then do the same thing the next day, and the next, until you are living a life steeped in the sounds and syllables of the Logos.

Read Personally, but Not Individually

Scripture is God’s gift of self-revelation, and it’s given not just to you or to me, but to his Church; it is meant to be read and interpreted in community. The best way to handle the anxiety of misinterpreting Scripture is not to read the study notes by a scholar and translator (though there is a time and place for that) but to sit with a group of fellow disciples and exchange ideas, interpretations, and stories. Only by gathering with other people who are also seeking God can we come to realize that nobody is an expert, no matter how many commentaries we’ve read. It is humbling to rattle off some seminary insight, only to have a decorous 75-year-old grandmother in a small-group Bible study say, “Well, I don’t know much about biblical languages, but I was thinking…” and then share a connection between her life and the passage at hand that is so beautiful, so full of the living Spirit of God, and so self-evidently true that it leaves everyone at the table gobsmacked. Group Bible study is where our pride in our abilities goes to die, and our pride must die if we are to grow into the full stature of Christ. Reading in communion with other believers keeps us from turning the Bible into an individual encounter that affirms everything we are already doing, and never challenges us to grow or change or repent.

So, if there isn’t a regular Bible study at your parish, ask your priest to start one. True, your priest is likely harried and overworked already, but any good priest should long to be approached by someone who wants more chances to encounter God in Scripture. If you do not have full-time clergy, or your clergy cannot start a Bible study, ask for resources so you can start one yourself. Ask another parish in your diocese to partner with you. There are many good resources available to help laypeople start and lead Bible studies. Gather a group, make a pot of coffee, open in prayer, and spend time coming to know one another as you come to know God in his Word.

God knows each of us better than we know ourselves, and it is the greatest joy and privilege of our lives to come to know him even a little bit. Nobody is expected to do it alone. This touches on the economy of salvation. The Holy Spirit uses the Word of Scripture, along with the sacraments, to give us Christ, who reconciles us to the Father. And the Spirit does this instrumental work in the context of real relationships in Christ’s body, the Church.

Consider a Truly Beautiful Bible

Finally, consider a gratuitously beautiful Bible. When I was made a postulant for ordination had a hardback Oxford study Bible rebound in a gorgeous saddle-colored goatskin as a present to myself. The leather is soft in the hand but will stand up to years of reading, notetaking, schlepping in a backpack, spilled coffee, and less-than-reverent toddlers. I’ve used it for personal devotion for the last 10 years, and it remains my favorite Bible and one of my most prized possessions.

Of course, it is better to read a poorly bound Bible than to have ten premium Bibles on your shelf that you never open. No one should feel the need for something more high-end before reading. The Bible is God’s Word regardless of the cover or how much it costs. Nevertheless, there is something about holding a book that is truly a work of art — a book with smooth pages for annotating, ribbons to hold your place, and a supple cover that molds to the warmth of your hand day after day — that is different than reading from a cheap paperback (or, God forbid, an iPad). It is like drinking coffee from your favorite mug: a paper cup gets the job done, but loving an object for its form and not just its function can draw us more deeply into the mystery it reveals: the God who is not just good, but beautiful.

In the second part of this essay, I aim to give some encouragement for clergy and Bible-reading.

I have had the privilege of worshiping and serving in several churches that are truly multigenerational. In each parish, the question of how to balance the desire for orderly and reverent worship with the presence of wiggly and vocal children has been top of mind. This is, of course, a good problem to have. At the same time, it is a problem without obvious answers. The balance between “Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me” (Matt. 19:14) and “Let all things be done decently and in order” (1 Cor. 14:40) is one that must be perused with charity, grace, and faithfulness on all sides, and that will look different in each family and each congregation.

There is, however, one argument I’ve heard again and again, which we should dismiss out of hand. It runs like this: small children and babies should go to nursery, instead of to the main service, because “they are too young to get anything out of it.”

The assumption implicit in this statement is that, because babies and very small children do not have the cognitive and linguistic capacity to comprehend Scripture, follow a sermon, interpret hymn texts, or make symbolic connections to the Holy Eucharist, the service is wasted on them. Whether they are in church or in nursery (or at home), the benefit to the child is about the same. Given that, why put everyone (including the poor parents) through the predictable struggle of having a wiggly and noisy child in church?

While this argument is almost always offered in good faith with the interest of parents, children, and other worshipers at its heart, it also suggests a deeper spiritual misunderstanding.

First, is it true that children, even tiny babies, are not receiving something by being in worship, just because they can’t understand what is going on around them? The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends reading to children from birth, even though the capacity for language does not develop for many months and isn’t fully developed for years. A two-month-old baby is “getting something” out of hearing her mom read Moo, Baa, La La La while snuggled in the rocking chair before bed, even though she can’t follow the story or recognize the shapes in the pictures.

Reading, speaking, and singing to children from birth promotes language development, nurtures a secure attachment with parents and caregivers, and inculcates an early love of language and literature. Isn’t it at least possible, then, that babies who are exposed to a weekly rhythm of worship are learning to develop a similar spiritual language and spiritual connection? Children and babies in worship are bathed in Holy Scripture and the ancient prayers of the church. Given the rapidity of child development, isn’t it likely that those words, sounds, sights, and smells are sinking into their tiny minds and hearts, shaping their imaginations and spirits?

But even if I am incorrect and children are incapable of engaging worship in a fruitful way until they are much closer to the age of reason, there is still a question that needs to be answered: is worship something that any of us are supposed to get something out of?

I remember being 5 years old and dragging my patent leather-clad feet to church whining to my father: “But church is boring.” I’ve never forgotten his reply: “I know: sometimes I think it’s boring too.” I was dumbfounded. The idea that an adult with the ability to operate a motor vehicle could think church was boring and decide to go anyway was astounding to me. I had naïvely assumed that grownups never did anything they thought was boring, and that if my parents were adamant about weekly church attendance (and they were) it must be because they wanted to go, that there was nothing they would rather be doing. I assumed, in other words, that my parents went to church because they got something out of it.

This is an assumption that all of us, no matter how old we are, are still tempted to hold. It is all over the way we talk about worship. We look for a church where we can be fed. A good sermon is one that is encouraging or uplifting. We want to feel God’s presence and be transformed. The absolute worst thing a worship service can be is boring.

But should this really be the goal? Do we come to church primarily to receive something that can be measured by how we feel afterward? And, if that is the case, what are we supposed to do on the days when we don’t “get anything out of it”? Some days I come to church distracted and disinterested, weighed down by worries and things I need to get done at home. Try as I might, I cannot seem to get into a mental or emotional state in which I can connect with the service. Some days I think church is boring and would rather go to the nursery. Some days, even as a priest, I don’t get anything out of church.

Of course, the moments when a particular chord or verse of a hymn strikes my heart and I feel my soul enlivened are gifts from God. The days when a sermon leaves me convicted of my dependency on God and need for repentance, or in awe of the wonderous gift of God’s love for his creation, carry me in a spiritual high for the rest of the week. Clergy have a responsibility to make worship both beautiful and edifying, and to preach the Word of God carefully and reverently. But even if we do, there will still be those whose minds wander and who are not formed by our careful exegesis. There will still be people in the pews who don’t know anything more than when they arrived, and don’t feel any different when they leave.

Thanks be to God; the measure of worship is not emotional or intellectual status of the worshiper. Worship should not be considered a product for which we are paying with our time and presence, but as a sacrifice which we humbly, meekly, and reverently offer unto God. We are not meant to get something out of the service, but to give ourselves to God, and to let him do the rest. The only “goal” for worship is to bring ourselves — our souls and bodies — regardless of how we feel or how our minds might wander — and to genuinely and sincerely offer them up to God. In doing so we remember in our bodies, even if we do not remember in our heads and hearts, that none of us truly belong to ourselves.

The trouble with looking to “get something out of” worship is that it is fundamentally mis-ordered; it places us, and not God, at the center of our worship. It indicates that we are thinking about worship as a show directed at the audience, and not a sacrifice offered to the glory of the one who calls us to worship in the first place.

Worship works in an economy that is not subject to first-person experience, but to the mysteries of unmerited grace. It shapes our hearts from both the inside out and the outside in. What we receive in worship is not a feeling or experience, but a person: the person of the risen Christ, under all the mysterious forms and in all the mysterious ways that he is manifest to his people. Each soul in the pews, regardless of age, is a child incapable of fully grasping what is going on around us. Each of us is being told a story that we cannot understand, and that nevertheless shapes us: week after week, Sunday after Sunday, year after year.

In a world that is defined by individualism and self-expression, ruled by the tyranny of our thoughts and feelings, bringing children to church, even when they are too young to get anything out of it, is of immeasurable value. It gives them a message they we all need to hold in our hearts and that cannot come anywhere but from the church. The message is this: “Your life is not your own. You belong to a heavenly Father and are the inheritors of a heavenly treasure. The measure of your faith, your life, and your trust in God is not dependent on how you feel or how much you understand, but on his never-ending faithfulness to you. How much or how little you have to offer, it is enough for God to give you back more than you could ask or imagine.”

Later that Christmas Day I managed to escape the visitors who had descended on our house, fueled by the dual excitement of Christmas and the new baby, by taking the baby into our bedroom to nurse. Figuring out breastfeeding had been much harder and much more exhausting than I had thought it would be when I was pregnant. Even after 10 days — and a visit to a board-certified lactation consultant — I still wasn’t sure what I was doing.

I had assumed that I would be sleep-deprived, but in my naivete I also assumed everything would just sort of come to me. I was a smart, competent, and well-educated person, after all. But I was learning the hard way that I had underestimated the bone-deep exhaustion that comes with recovering form childbirth. I had hormone withdrawals that left me always on the edge of tears and made me feel like I was losing my mind, and I could not have predicted how draining it was to feed a baby with my body, all on three to four non-consecutive hours of sleep a night.

As I sat in my armchair that Christmas afternoon, holding my tiny baby in the quiet, a thought flashed fully formed through my exhausted mind: Mary was here too. For the first time in 10 days, I didn’t feel alone in my struggle. My eyes filled with tears as I thought about Mary holding her baby, just like I was. She must have woken up in the middle of the night, not just when he cried, but also when he gurgled or grunted. I thought of her grimacing through the pain and fear as she tried to figure out nursing. Did she worry if Jesus was getting enough to eat and gaining weight quickly enough? Was she also unsure if she was doing it right, or if she was even capable of being a mother? Did her body hurt as much as mine?

Of course she experienced all of that. The thing you realize when you see birth and postpartum up close is that — for all of our technology, science, and modern medicine — the basics haven’t really changed. Human infancy is still just as helpless and fragile as it was then. It wasn’t easy, but it was simple. All my baby needed was to be held and fed, kept warm and safe. A line from a beloved Christmas carol came to me: “Enough for him whom cherubim worship night and day: a breast full of milk, and a manger full of hay.”

I realized then that my body had been made for this moment and for this purpose. I knew that no matter how hard and painful it was, even in the moments when I felt like I was wasting away, I had been given an immense privilege. I had been called to give up my strength in exchange for the strength of this tiny girl. How many times had I, as a priest, stood at the altar and said “Take, eat. This is my body which is given for you.” Would I ever be able to say those words in the same way? That first meal, a gift from a mother to her son on a cold Christmas morning in Bethlehem, gestures toward the gift Christ gives his disciples in the upper room. This is my body.

As I saw my story unfold into Mary’s, I felt as though I was seeing the mystery of the Incarnation in a new light. The Church venerates the Blessed Virgin Mary not only for what she did as the woman who gave birth to Jesus, but as the Mother of God. Her body is not just the vessel that carries Jesus and nurtures him as an infant, but the only means of Incarnation. Jesus Christ is the eternal Logos of God, but his human nature and body come into the world the way all of us did: as a donation from the body of his mother. To celebrate Christmas with Mary is to affirm unequivocally that the Word became flesh, with all its mess and blood and pain. What a privilege to enter this world the way our Lord did. What a joy for me to hold another human creature in my arms; a person so loved by God that he was willing to share a nature, flesh, and blood with her.

As I looked at the baby, my mind drifted from Jesus’ earthly mother to his heavenly Father. To have a little creature — so dependent, finite, and contingent — made me see not just myself, but the whole human race in light of God’s love for us. As hard as being a new mother was, I knew that what I wanted more than anything was for my daughter to thrive, to grow, and to flourish. I was ready to fight any power that would threaten her. When I looked at her, I saw not just her 10-day-old self, but her potential: the dreams and friendships and encounters she would have with the world. I mourned, preemptively, her failings and shortcomings and the fact that she was going to see how cruel and hard the world is; the fact that she would be hurt, and that she was going to hurt others. Even on her 10th  day, I was already sad that she was going to grow up, and wouldn’t need me. But a larger and stronger part was overjoyed with the prospect of her growing, flourishing, and becoming the person she was made to be.

Children give us a small but real encounter with the Father’s love for all his children, his desire to see us not just exist, but to flourish — to grow into the people he has called us to be. His joy in our triumphs, and his sorrow in our failings. When I think about these things, about what lengths his love was willing to go — about the hand that once held Mary’s nailed to the cross, not just to save us from death, but so that we may live in him forever, I can do nothing more than utter a Christmas prayer: a whispered “Thank you” and “I’m sorry” and “Help me” and “I love you,” all in the same breath.

Were people really saying that I was going to love my baby more than my husband, her father? And what about my love for God? As a priest, I taught, talked, and thought about love all the time. Love is the heart of all that lives and moves and has its being. Loving God is our highest calling, the whole reason we exist. Did these people really expect me to admit, out loud, that I was going to love my baby more than I loved my Creator and Savior? Did they expect me to believe that God would withhold a certain amount of love from those who, by choice or chance, had no children?

When my daughter Ridley was born, I got some idea of what they were getting at. I don’t love Ridley more than I love my husband or Jesus, but I love her differently. It isn’t a matter of more or less; it is a difference in quality and kind. The day she was born I knew, in an instant, that this was the one person in the world that I would not hesitate to die for: without question, without hesitation, without a second thought. This is not because I suddenly gained capacity to love, or I’d never met someone else who I loved enough, but because it is who I am, and who she is to me. It is a fierce, hungry, borderline dangerous love not rooted in anything Ridley has done, or could do. It isn’t a love I generate from within myself as I try to love her better and be a better mother. It comes from my being. My existence and encounter in this world changed the minute she came into it.

This hit me particularly hard when I preached on Mary at the foot of the Cross on Good Friday, when Ridley was just 12 weeks old. I’ve always been moved by the Stabat Mater, but that Good Friday I felt in my bones, for the first time, that Mary would have climbed onto the cross herself; without question, without hesitation, without a second thought, if it meant that she could save her son.

Each disaster, tragedy, and cruelty I see in the world now affects me differently since becoming a parent. I was in college when the terrorist group Boko Haram kidnapped 276 schoolgirls in Chibok, Nigeria, and I spent weeks thinking about them — girls just a few years younger than me. I had nightmares about what was happening to them, and I prayed for their return. Almost 10 years later, I still think about them and pray for them and wonder where they are now.

But since having Ridley, I no longer just think about those kidnapped girls; I also think about their mothers. Reading a news story about a missing or injured child is no longer a moral, intellectual, and emotional tragedy; it is one I feel in my body. I can’t read about a war, kidnapping, murder or plague without thinking about my baby, her little body, and her sweet smile. I feel, in a way I can’t totally explain, a minute dose of the anguish that mothers all around the world feel when their children are suffering, scared, or in danger.

I recently read an opinion piece in The Washington Post by Mayyan Zin, an Israeli woman whose two daughters were kidnapped by Hamas on October 7, and are held hostage in Gaza. Her piece is heartbreaking and powerful. She writes:

I have nothing left to ask of this world but this: Take me to my girls. Take me to Gaza. I am requesting assistance from the Israeli government, the U.S. government, the International Committee of the Red Cross and any other organization trying to help the hostages. I cannot wait for more news of hostage deals to come and go. You have failed to free my girls, so take me to Gaza.

Before having Ridley, I would have been moved by Mayyan’s words, felt sad, and felt for her loss and worry about her daughters. But I also would have assumed — without malice, but with naïveté — that her plea to be taken into Hamas-controlled Gaza was a well-chosen and rhetorically powerful illustration of her passion. But having a child of my own changes everything. Reading her words now, I know deep in my bones that she is as serious, and is speaking as literally, as anyone has ever been or spoken about anything. Given the chance, she would willingly walk right into the midst of the people who killed her daughters’ father and 1,200 others with impunity and sickening glee. I have no doubt that she would accept certain death, if it meant she could free her girls. Without question, without hesitation, without second thought, Mayyan would go to Gaza. Because that is who she is. That is the quality of her love.

Having a child didn’t show me how much I could love another person, but it did change my experience and understanding of God’s love for this terribly broken world. The quantity of God’s love for us is infinite, and we will never be able to comprehend it, in this age or the age to come. But I now have a taste, a hint, a shadow, of the quality of that love. When John says, “See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and that is what we are” (1 John 3:1), I don’t think he is talking about the amount of love, but the type: a desperate, dangerous love that comes from God’s very being: the love of a parent who would give everything in the world, even to the point of death, to bring his children home.

Which is, of course, what the Incarnation, Crucifixion, and Resurrection is. God looks at the world he has made, a world where children are kidnapped and murdered, where wars rage, where violence is perpetrated with impunity, and says: “Take me to them. I am going to bring them back.”

The astounding thing about the mother of Jesus standing at the foot of the cross is that this quality of love flows in both directions. Mary could have begged to take her son’s place on the cross, just as Mayyan begs to be taken to Gaza. But the mystery of mysteries is this: while Mary loves Jesus as a son, he loves her not just as a mother, but as his creation — as a human being made after his own image, made to dwell with him in the love he shares with his Father, a love that cannot bear to give his creatures up to sin and death. This love is like the love parents have for their children, but deeper and broader and richer and fiercer than anything we could know in this life.

And when the world is terribly dark, this is what I hold onto. I pray for Mayyan and her daughters, pray that God will bring them back together, that he will stir up his power and break the chains of war, hate, sin, and violence. I hold my baby girl and thank God for her. I pray for the mothers and fathers lying awake at night all around the world, parents with empty arms longing for their children, wondering where their children are, or missing those they have lost. And I know, deep in my bones, that a fierce, determined, dangerous love is at the very heart of God; that he will, in the last day, dry every eye and bind up every wound; that he will come to bring us back.