Still on the Way . . .

On Monday, September 8, 2025, the Supreme Court of the United States of America chose not to protect my family’s constitutional rights. Instead, it protected the federal government’s capacity to violate them. Unbelievable, right? Read on.

In June 2025, the United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency launched “Operation At Large” in the Los Angeles area, in which teams of armed, masked agents–often in unmarked vehicles, without uniforms, and without identifying themselves as law enforcement officers–seized individuals and groups of people because of their appearance, their accent, and their location–usually at workplaces common to migrant workers, like car washes, constructions sites, landscaping jobs, and even home improvement warehouses.

The operation resulted in about 2,800 arrests and many more detentions. However, evidence presented to a federal district court demonstrated that the seizures in these raids were almost exclusively based on only four factors: the persons’ “apparent race or ethnicity,” their perceived accent, their location, and their apparent vocation.

That federal district court ruled that such seizures likely violated the Fourth Amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America, so the court temporarily prohibited federal agents from continuing these mass arrests.

Our federal government, specifically our department of homeland security, petitioned the Supreme Court to issue an emergency stay of the lower court’s decision, so that ICE agents can resume these armed, masked raids and mass arrests based solely on one or more of the four ambiguous factors named above. Tragically, the Supreme Court granted the “emergency” stay.

Here’s what I hear: on Monday, the Supreme Court of the United States of America ruled that armed, masked ICE agents are allowed to detain my sons merely because of “their apparent race or ethnicity.” Read on.

My sons, Brett and Micah, were born in Guatemala. Some call them Hispanic or Latino, but it’s most accurate to call them Kiche Mayan. They have dark hair, dark complexions, and beautiful dark brown eyes. “Their apparent race or ethnicity” likely resembles many undocumented men, women, and children who have migrated from the poverty of Central America toward opportunity in the United States.

Twenty years ago, Suzanne and I spent countless hours and dollars fulfilling requirements and gathering documents–so very many documents–to adopt them legally. The expense of the processes to adopt them and to ensure that they are naturalized and well-documented was nearly insurmountable for our little middle-class American family. I can only imagine how far out of reach it is for impoverished families.

Now, Brett and Micah are young adults. They are college students. They drive cars. They are often beyond the protective wingspan of their white parents. So, because of “their apparent race or ethnicity,” we have often suspected and even feared that they might be vulnerable. On Monday, the Supreme Court assured us that they are.

The Fourth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America reads:
“The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.”

Sadly, however, that “probable cause” constitutionally required for a warrant or seizure is already diminished by immigration law. The Immigration and Nationality Act authorizes immigration officers to “briefly detain” a person, as Justice Brett Kavanaugh says in Monday’s majority opinion, if they have “a reasonable suspicion” that the person is in this country illegally. The probable cause guaranteed by the Constitution is reduced to reasonable suspicion in matters of immigration enforcement. Justice for all, indeed.

Justice Kavanaugh confirms that the person under threat of an ICE arrest is more vulnerable to seizure, writing, “Reasonable suspicion is a lesser requirement than probable cause and “considerably short” of the preponderance of the evidence standard.” Here’s what I hear: the federal government doesn’t require of itself anything close to probable cause to detain my sons. Read on.

Though Justice Kavanaugh argues that “apparent ethnicity alone cannot furnish reasonable suspicion,” he later cedes, “however, it can be ‘relevant factor.'” So, while their ethnicity cannot be the reason my sons are detained, it can certainly stand up as a reason. Stay away from Home Depot and construction sites, boys.

So, what if my sons–both citizens of the United States of America–actually are detained? Justice Kavanaugh assures us, “reasonable suspicion means only that immigration officers may briefly stop the individual and inquire about immigration status. If the person is a U. S. citizen or otherwise lawfully in the United States, that individual will be free to go after the brief encounter.”

Justice Kavanaugh later reassures us, “as for stops of those individuals who are legally in the country, the questioning in those circumstances is typically brief, and those individuals may promptly go free after making clear to the immigration officers that they are U. S. citizens or otherwise legally in the United States.”

Here’s what I hear: my sons are now legally subject to a “brief encounter” with armed, masked men emerging from an unmarked vehicle–weapons in hand–who can subdue them, pin them to a car, a chainlink fence, or the ground, and require them to prove their citizenship. After those pleasantries, they “may promptly go free.” Read on.

My son Brett worked for a car wash for a few years. My son Micah worked with a landscaping company one year. Because of “their apparent race or ethnicity” and their willingness to work at a particular kind of workplace to earn their gas money and college money, it turns out that they were particularly at risk of being detained–however briefly–and of having to prove their citizenship before being released.

This is not the nation I have known and loved, and this is not making America great. It’s far too reminiscent of some of the ugliest eras of human history, like when free black Americans had to prove their freedom or risk being deported to the southern states and sold into slavery (remember Twelve Years a Slave?) or when due process was so circumvented by the Gestapo that German citizens had to carry their papers to avoid detention and arrest.

Accuse me of hyperbole or overstatement, but Monday’s Supreme Court decision made it official. That’s the world in which my sons live. Driving or not, they will need to carry their Real I.D.s with them wherever they go to prove that they are citizens. The Supreme Court has abridged their constitutional right to be secure in their persons.

I hope you find that unconscionable. I know I do.

Now, lest I give you the impression that this essay is completely self-interested, let me assure you that I find it unconscionable not only for my sons, but for all.

I am a follower of Jesus Christ, who commenced his ministry by saying that he was sent for the poor, the captives, the blind, and the oppressed, and concluded it by commanding his followers to care for the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, and the imprisoned. To follow Jesus faithfully is to lift up one’s hands to serve and one’s voice to advocate for the very most vulnerable. All of them.

In my younger years, I stood for the pledge of allegiance each morning at E.B. Stanley Elementary School, and we ended that unison affirmation of our commitment to this nation with these words: “with liberty and justice for all.”

On weekends, I stood for calls to worship, hymns, creeds, and prayers at Abingdon United Methodist Church, and most of those acts of worship ended with one simple word: “Amen.”

Sometimes, the force of that habit carried into the school week, and I would find myself facing a flag saying, “with liberty and justice for all. Amen.” That’s so appropriate now. My family is not assured liberty and justice. We can merely pray for them. And work for them.

So, I pray and I will work for liberty and justice for all. For due process and probable cause for all.

For Brett. For Micah. For all who are vulnerable. For all who are undocumented. For all who wear judicial robes. Even for and maybe especially for all who emerge ununiformed from unmarked cars with faces masked and weapons in hand.

As we wait and work for justice, Brett and Micah, I stand with you, and I promise I will stand in front of you. I love you fiercely, and they’ll have to come through me to get you.

“That’s my baby!”

Twenty years ago today, on May 16, 2005, Suzanne spoke those words in a crowded hotel lobby in Guatemala City. Earlier in the day, we had arrived to assume custody of our son Brett, the child we longed to hold in our arms after holding him in our hearts for nearly four months.

We were anxious because two hours had passed since the time we were supposed to meet the adoption facilitator. It was now late in the afternoon, and offices were closing for the day, both in Guatemala City and back in the United States. We weren’t sure what to do if he simply didn’t arrive that day.

Then Suzanne looked across the lobby and saw the child whose face she had only seen in pictures wearing the clothes that she had sent to his foster family, and the recognition was instant. With relief, excitement, and joy, she said–as she was already moving quickly toward him–“That’s my baby!”

Since that moment, we have held him, cared for him, cried for him, nurtured him, and loved him. In every imaginable way, he has been our baby over these past twenty years, and he always will be.

It hasn’t always been easy or joyful, though. There have been challenging moments. Some people along the way have very kindly pointed out that Brett and his brother Micah, whom we adopted the next year, don’t resemble Suzanne and me. Early on, we began to call these “ethnic moments.”

As Suzanne pushed them through a store in a shopping cart, a slightly frowning woman looked at them and asked, “What are they?” Suzanne curtly responded, “They’re boys.”

A store employee once leaned uncomfortably close to them and very loudly and hospitably said, “Hola amigos!” Suzanne informed her that they didn’t speak Spanish and had barely begun to speak at all.

In the McDonald’s playground, another dad asked me, “Them your boys?” When I affirmed that they were, he said, “They look Indian.” I remain unsure why he felt compelled to share that observation with me. For a fleeting second, I was tempted to manufacture an uncharitable assessment of his kids’ appearance, but my love for Jesus got the better of me.

Heartbreakingly, it became clear early on that some people simply look differently at our babies. Or perhaps some simply can’t get beyond the fact that our babies look different from them. We grieve that.

Interestingly, in The Spirit of Adoption: at Home in God’s Family, Rev. Dr. Jeanne Stevenson-Moessner suggests that adoption always involves both gift and grief. This claim matches my experience. I am unable to articulate what great gifts Brett and Micah are to Suzanne and me. I simply cannot find the words. I admit too, though, that I have grieved–not only for the boys, but also for their birth mother.

In a deposition to ensure that she was willingly offering her Jose Luis, our Brett, for adoption, she said that she was at peace with it because she could not afford to raise a child. She said that her income was “a few centavos a day” from making tamales. One centavo is one one-hundredth of a quetzal, the basic unit of Guatemalan currency. As I write this, one quetzal is worth thirteen cents in U.S. currency. Her income, then, was a few one-hundredths of thirteen cents per day.

When our Guatemalan adoption attorney showed her a picture of our three-bedroom house with vinyl siding, she said, “Palacio!” She was excited that this child would grow up in a palace! I’m so profoundly grateful that we could give him that gift, but still, I grieve her loss. I grieve her poverty.

On this twentieth anniversary of Brett’s “gotcha day,” I also grieve our society.

When I first held Brett, back on May 16, 2005, I was filled with hope and optimism! What would this child become? What would he grow to be? What would he do with his life? All the doors were open before him! Anything was possible!

Today, on May 16, 2025, I listened to a radio news story about hundreds of traffic stops in Nashville’s Latino communities aimed at detaining and deporting illegal aliens or undocumented immigrants. Another news story recapped the Supreme Court’s hearing of a case related to the President’s executive order seeking to deny birthright citizenship to the children of illegal aliens or undocumented immigrants.

Regardless of your political affiliations or inclinations, here’s a simple truth. I’m 6’6″ tall, and I’m quite white. No one’s going to stop me in traffic and ask me to document my citizenship. On the twentieth anniversary of his “gotcha day,” we cannot guarantee that for my Brett. Or for my Micah.

Some–not all, certainly, but some–will simply look differently at my babies, or they will simply be unable to get past the fact that my babies look different from them.

I understand the fear. We’ve all heard the stories of bad people who have come illegally into our nation to do bad things. Certainly, we should make every effort to protect the innocent from the predatory.

We’ve also heard the propaganda–“they” have come to take our jobs, our benefits, our tax dollars, etc. And who are they? They are people who look Latino, Hispanic, Central American. They are people who look like my babies.

And they are people who look like their birth mother. Remember her? The one who made a few one-hundredths of thirteen cents per day? The one who thought our home with vinyl siding was a palace? There is a park in her hometown with a monument in honor of all those who left in search of a better life–those who sought something more than a few centavos a day.

I guess it’s easy to say rather flippantly how welcoming we would be if they would just immigrate legally–that is, until we stop to think about how much legal assistance one one-hundredth of thirteen cents will buy. In contrast, our experience was that each of our two international adoptions cost tens of thousands of dollars–to the extent that I’ve often joked that we should have named our sons Lexus and Mercedes.

Maybe, in the end, what we’ve made illegal about immigration is poverty.

Ironically, though, we live in an era in which they–the vulnerable of Central America–are to be feared. They are the enemy, the threat, the other.

Please don’t let your heart be hardened. When you buy into that idea of other-ness, it becomes more difficult to be humane and compassionate, but it becomes easy to objectify them.

It becomes easy to build a border wall or detention center to keep them out or to get them out.

It becomes easy to stop them in traffic or to require them to produce documentation.

It becomes easy to deny them birthright citizenship or even to revoke their naturalized citizenship.

On this twentieth anniversary of Brett’s “gotcha day,” Suzanne and I lament that we have had tough conversations with our young adult sons. Though they are smart, handsome, hardworking young citizens of the United States of America, some will see them only for their skin tone or ethnicity.

For some, tragically, they are other.

So, here’s the reality. Some unthinking/unfeeling person might say, “Go back where you came from.” Some federal agent may stop them in traffic because of their physical appearance–and you’d better bet that I fiercely protect their citizenship documentation. Just this week, we told them to be sure that they call us and keep their speaker phones on if they are pulled over.

It’s tragic, and it’s sad. Suzanne and I shouldn’t have to worry about that. Brett and Micah certainly shouldn’t.

So, in honor of this twentieth anniversary of Brett’s “gotcha day,” when you look at that great young man, see more than dark skin or dark hair. See more than K’iche’ Mayan, Hispanic, Latino, or any other label you would assign. See more than they, them, or other. And demand the same of the nation in which we live!

Because in the words of his mother Suzanne, “That’s my baby.”

Yesterday morning at about 9:00, Micah asked, “So, are we ready?”

We had spent the previous days and weeks making checklists, buying necessities, and preparing in every other way we could imagine for his first year of college. We had spent the last couple of hours labelling boxes and storage containers and packing them into our vehicles.

And so, as you already know, Micah smiled broadly and asked at about 9:00, “So, are we ready?”

I said, “Micah, buddy, if I’m being honest, no. I’m not ready,” and I hugged that young man who was so recently a child. My eyes were slightly better lubricated than usual, and when I saw Suzanne step out of the room, I suspected hers were too.

But Micah was ready. He was anxious to get on the road, into the dorm, and off on this great adventure.

So, Suzanne, Micah, and I stepped into two vehicles–his Toyota Corolla and her Honda Odyssey–both stuffed with his dorm supplies and some of his most prized possessions, and we began the two hour journey from Maryville to Chattanooga.

As we drove in tandem down Interstate 75, I tried not to remember that Suzanne and I would return by that same route later in the day in only one vehicle.

Whatever Suzanne and I felt, Micah seemed 100% excited, which made the day easier for his mom and dad. Another blessing is that his suitemates are high school friends, and the four of them are so eager to share this journey together. So, as beds were made, closets were arranged, furniture was placed, and walls were decorated, we were at ease with each other–these four young men and their families from Maryville.

In fact, we were having such a great time together that we decided to go out to eat supper together. Around the table were smiles, laughter, conversation, optimism, and joy! We took a group photo to remember this momentous milestone day.

Inevitably, though, the meal came to an end, and it was time for the guys to return to their dorm, and it was time for their families–albeit more reluctantly–to return to Maryville.

With smiles and encouragement, we all reached for our sons for one last hug.

Then, with tears, parting words of advice, and reminders to be careful, we all reached for our sons for second, third, and fourth last hugs.

And then, they were off.

They’re great young men. But, remember, they were so recently children . . .

As we walked back to the car, I whispered a prayer that God will watch over Micah closely now that I can’t.

And even though I wasn’t yet ready for this moment, I prayed that Micah is.

It was amazing and a little unsettling that in a one minute walk to the car, the past eighteen years seemed to pass so quickly through my mind, or maybe through my heart.

I thought to myself, “I hope we’ve done enough to prepare him.”

And a little voice from somewhere within or beyond seemed to reply, “With any luck, you might not have done merely enough. You may have even done well.”

May it be so. May it be.

“Who are you arguing with?”

I heard that question audibly, loudly, clearly, and distinctly. I won’t swear that you would have if you had been with me there on the upper level of Emory & Henry College’s Kelly Library that evening, but I heard it.

I sat in a study carrel one night during my first year of college, and my mind had wandered from the academic subject on the pages before me to the bigger picture of my life and vocation. I was imagining the life that I would live on my family’s farm and making the case that an attorney could do just as much good for the Kingdom of God as an ordained minister when I heard the voice.

“Who are you arguing with?”

Two thoughts immediately occurred to me: (1) I would have expected the voice of God to use proper English grammar by asking, “With whom are you arguing?” and (2) I had the undeniable sense that God was calling me into ordained ministry rather than law.

I wasn’t entirely surprised. I had grown up in the Abingdon United Methodist Church where my formative experiences in children’s, youth, and music ministries had offered plenty of opportunities to grow, stretch, and be mentored in the faith.

When I was not quite twelve years old, our congregation hosted a retirement reception for our beloved pastor, Rev. Harrison Marshall. He was not a tall man, but I was a tall child, so we saw nearly eye-to-eye when he placed both of his hands on my shoulders and looked intently into my eyes. I’ll never forget the words he spoke to me: “Jonathan, I want you to keep your ears open, because I believe God is going to call you into ministry.” Maybe I was able to hear the life-changing question that night in Kelly Library because Harrison Marshall had urged me to keep my ears open.

Several years later, after I had graduated from Emory & Henry College and was in the midst of my graduate studies at Emory University’s Candler School of Theology, I reached a moment of fatigue. Looking back, I think I may just have been ready for some variety from academic work, but in that moment, I had some questions about my vocational calling.

So, I returned one weekend to the place where I had most clearly heard that calling–Emory & Henry College. This time, I sat in the chaplain’s office in Memorial Chapel, where I had a conversation with Rev. David St. Clair. To help me sort out my own calling, I rather innocently asked him, “When did you hear the call to ministry.” He answered, “Most recently, this morning.”

I laughed nervously, because I thought he might have been joking. He was not, and he went on to describe his conviction that we answer that call regularly, frequently, daily as we choose to follow and go where we are called and sent in Jesus’ name. I returned to Atlanta with newfound energy and enthusiasm, believing that each class, each day of class, and maybe even each conversation, was my next opportunity to hear and to respond to God’s call.

Now, years later, whatever good I am able to do, whatever fruit I am privileged to bear, whatever little light I am able to shine–all of these are the results of hearing my calling at Emory & Henry College.

Now, because of age, experience, and maturity, I am more likely to be the mentor in the conversation. I am more likely to be the one encouraging a young person to listen or helping a young person to work out a sense of vocational calling.

Now, because of age, experience, and maturity, I am tempted to believe that I have wisdom, which further tempts me toward more talking than listening. In our younger years, systems of seniority frustrate us. We recognize and often resent that the people who have put in their time have the voices with influence. In our older years, we are so delighted to be heard (and to have that influence) that we forget how frustrated our younger selves were when our voices and perspectives felt diminished.

Now, perhaps more than ever, I need to be reminded of Rev. Harrison Marshall’s words: “Jonathan, I want you to keep your ears open.”

That’s why I am delighted to lift my voice in support of the Holston Conference’s New Voices campaign.

By our June 2024, our goal is to raise $1.5 million to support ministries that enable our young people to hear their callings and to find their voices. This offering will benefit our five conference camping ministries, five campus ministries, and two universities–including my beloved Emory & Henry.

That’s the beauty of this effort and offering. Where Emory & Henry College is crucial to my story, dozens or hundreds of people might tell similar stories substituting the names of the other ministries whom this offering will benefit. They have heard their callings or found their voices at Camp Dickenson, Camp Bays Mountain, Camp in the Community, Camp Wesley Woods, or Camp Lookout; at the Wesley Foundation at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, the University of Tennessee in Knoxville; East Tennessee State University; the University of Virginia at Wise, or Radford University; or at Emory & Henry College or Tennessee Wesleyan University.

I ask you to join me in ensuring that our young, rising leaders have the opportunity to hear their callings and to find their voices. In fact, I ask you to join me in the effort to celebrate my fifty-two years of life in the Holston Conference of the United Methodist Church by raising $5,200 for the New Voices campaign.

After all, “Who are you arguing with?”

Tonight you’ll spend your first night in a dorm room. Congratulations! Your college experience has begun!

Though I’ve had years to prepare, I confess this day has come before I’m ready, but I trust that you are. You’re going to be great!

From day one, I’ve cherished my role as a supporting actor in your life, and even when you haven’t needed support, I’ve loved the view from the front row. Though I’ll be watching from a greater distance now, I’ll constantly hold you closely in my love and prayers.

A few months before you were born, someone gave your mom a card with these words attributed to Elizabeth Stone: “Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”

As of today, wherever we may be, know that a big part of our heart is walking around on the Emory & Henry College campus.

Over the past few days, your mom and I have felt like we’re back in college cramming for a final exam, furiously trying to answer tough questions. Have we prepared you well enough? Have we bought all the things you will need? Have we taught you all you need to know?

In truth, we know that’s not possible. Part of your college experience is to learn things for yourself, to make your own mistakes and discoveries, to learn to rely upon and trust your own judgment.

When I was your age and leaving home for my first night in a dormitory at Emory & Henry College, my dad gave me some timeless counsel: “Don’t let your mouth write any checks your butt can’t cash.” I wish I had something that wise and memorable, but here’s the best I can offer you . . .

Be sure to answer your mother’s calls and text messages as quickly as possible. Remember, a big part of her heart is now walking around on a college campus in another state. No one loves you or worries for you like your mom. Please don’t make her worry needlessly.

On the other hand, even if it is your mother calling, please don’t pay attention to your phone while you’re driving! It can wait. Keep yourself safe.

And don’t ever get into the vehicle with a driver who seems impaired in any way, whether by alcohol, or any other substance, or even lack of sleep.

Keep your car parked as much as possible. Enjoy the luxury of living on a pedestrian campus! Breathe the fresh air. Get some exercise. Don’t let the car become a crutch or an escape from spending time in community with people.

Keep your phone in your pocket as much as possible. It can also become a convenient escape from community. Instead of staring at a screen, notice people, see their faces, say hello.

In these first few weeks, meet as many people as possible. There’s time later to form more tightly knit small groups. Enjoy the luxury of a smaller college community! Challenge yourself to learn people’s names, faces, and stories.

Spend as much time with people as with assignments. As the years pass, you’ll forget some, much, or even all of the academic material. You’ll never forget the feeling of being part of community. Invest in that.

On the other hand, don’t neglect to do your very best on every assignment. That’s the wise counsel my mom gave me every single day of elementary and high school. When no one is watching or there to remind you, take pride in your work.

Develop good habits. Set aside time for study. Make time for relaxation and fun. Be sure to get enough sleep and rest. Don’t spend more money than you have. Avoid overeating. Take time to exercise and be well.

Be a person of integrity. Tell the truth, even when it’s hard. Be reliable. Be dependable. Be the kind of person people can trust. Have principles that you won’t let yourself violate. Stand up for what you believe.

Be a person of compassion. It’s almost certain that some people will feel out of place, left out, and left behind. When you discover who they are, go out of your way to be kind to them.

Be grateful and patient. Develop spiritual maturity by giving thanks every day to God and to the people around you. Make a habit of thanking people who work in support roles around campus. Work hard not to complain. And if you dine out, be sure to tip your servers.

Trust your heart. Like mom says, if it feels wrong, it probably is–or at least it’s wrong for you. Avoid the things you’ll regret, but live out your passions!

Use your brain. Some people are predatory and manipulative. Keep your eyes open. Don’t walk alone at night. Don’t accept a drink from anyone. And don’t let anyone drive your car. Insurance and accidents are expensive.

Leave earlier than necessary and walk to class. You’ll have time to settle your mind, to enjoy the scenery, and to get to know the people around you.

Participate in class. Answer the questions. Take part in the discussion. Demonstrate that you’re interested and prepared.

Be open to new possibilities. Try a different food in the cafeteria. Take a class in an unfamiliar academic area. Have a conversation with someone from a different part of the world. Hear from someone who votes differently than you. Sing in the choir! Learn a new instrument! Commit yourself to learning and growth even outside the classroom.

Don’t be afraid to ask. The faculty and staff are glad to help you find your class, grasp the concept, or find the best solution to your dilemma. You’re not supposed to know it all, and sometimes the only way to learn is to ask. Please ask humans more often than you ask Siri or Alexa, ok?

Grace, there will be plenty of questions, and you will probably begin to question yourself and your deeply held convictions. There will be plenty of new ideas, opportunities, and ways of looking at the world. Sometimes the novel feels more appealing than the familiar. Dear child, no matter what you embrace or cast aside over these four years, please reserve space for Jesus at the center of your heart. Your aging brain will lose its grip on knowledge, and your strongest friendships are only lifelong. The love of God–and only the love of God–is eternal.

Wendell Berry once wrote, “Advice is best given when it is sought.” Well, please forgive me for offering these unsolicited thoughts, and know that I simply offer them out of love.

When you were younger and smaller, I often asked, “How much does your daddy love you?” And you would answer, “More than anything in the world.”

So, as you spread your wings, find your own way, and live your best life, here’s one last and very most important thing to remember:

Mom and I love you more than anything in the world, sweet girl. More than anything in the world.

Elton John sang, “Sorry seems to be the hardest word.” A few years later, Chicago confessed, “It’s hard for me to say I’m sorry.”

Those words probably stick in my mind because I can remember all the times those words have stuck in my mouth. It really is hard for me to say, “I’m sorry,” and if sorry isn’t the very hardest word for me to say, it’s certainly near the top of the list.

Why is that? I imagine it’s because I really don’t like to be wrong. Pridefully, I think an apology is more about me than the person to whom I need to apologize. Blinded by my own need to be right and justified, I lose sight of the importance of being in a right relationship. Tragically, my pride and unwillingness to apologize often cause even more injury to the very people I love most of all.

To apologize requires humility and empathy–humility to admit our capability to err and empathy to identify with the other’s hurt. To say, “I’m sorry,” is to affirm that another’s injury–whether intended or not–is more important than our own need to be above reproach. Put simply, it is to love neighbor as self.

But it is hard.

I experienced that first hand today with my own Holston Conference of the United Methodist Church. In our morning session of the annual conference, we considered a resolution about our ministry together with LGBTQAI+ brothers and sisters that concluded:

THEREFORE, Be it Resolved that as the Holston Annual Conference we commit ourselves to join hands as one, united through our prayers, our presence, our gifts, our service, and our witness as we work together toward God’s hope for the people of Holston and apologize for the harm caused to the body of Christ and its witness in the world.

As an annual conference, it was hard for us to say, “I’m sorry.” Sorry proved to be the hardest word.

I’m not surprised. Our differences over human sexuality cause strong emotional reactions, and I’m sure that many members of our annual conference found it hard to apologize because they felt it would be admitting to wrongdoing for which they do not feel responsible. Some probably are simply unable to see that any harm has been done, so inextricably and hopelessly are their ideas of sexuality and sinfulness intertwined.

Regardless, the resolution was amended to say that we grieve, rather than apologize for the harm caused.

I can appreciate our collective emotional desire to amend the resolution. Grieving allows us to be compassionate, but it doesn’t require us to feel responsible. Grieving lets us wish that others weren’t hurting without necessarily seeing our own place in causing their pain–even accidentally.

My biggest heartbreak is that we have diminished–with the change of a word–our urgency to bring about reconciliation. We have not demanded of ourselves a resolve to renew and redouble our efforts to do no harm–even accidentally.

Today’s annual conference action has helped me to see myself more clearly, and I hope I’ve taken another step in growth and maturity toward being better able to value my relationships over my pride.

I hope I’ve learned that an apology is not fundamentally about me.  Its primary purpose is not to point out my wrongness or to imply my willful injury of another. Rather, to say “I’m sorry” is to affirm my love for the other, to say that I regret his/her hurt, and that I want our relationship to be restored even more than I want to be blameless and right.

I wish our annual conference had done that through our resolution today.

We are not of one heart and voice in the Holston Annual Conference today. Even in its amended form, I doubt that we adopt the resolution.

Nevertheless, in my heart and in the hearts of many of my brothers and sisters in Christ, the resolution remains unamended. We really do “apologize for the harm caused to the body of Christ and its witness in the world.”

No matter how hard it is to say, and even if it’s the hardest word of all, we’re sorry.