I have a special and treasured relationship with my 87-year-old uncle. To most of the world, he’s Father Dennet, a Franciscan priest. But to our family, to me, he’s Uncle Joe. I don’t get to see him often, but he makes a point of calling me every few weeks. And I drop everything and take his call no matter what I’m doing.

He’s not a stuffy priest. He is the most welcoming, accepting, kind man I know. He is the Uncle who showed up to his mother’s funeral with a 6-pack of beer under his jacket. (For the after-party/celebration of life, of course). He is the Uncle who, though I wasn’t raised Catholic, would sneak me communion during family events and weddings he officiated because he knows my heart and believes that the building I worship in shouldn’t exclude me from the most sacred of Christian traditions. His homilies are clear: all are welcome in the eyes of the Lord.

He reads my blogs and sees my Facebook posts, and he often calls after I write something. (He’ll probably call after he sees this one, too!) The other night, he called just to ‘check in’ and to offer me encouragement, as he always does, in my frustration about the state of our nation right now. (I haven’t been subtle on Facebook and Twitter. Yes, I said, Twitter.) He’s known me since I was born, so he knows how I was raised. I grew up in the Baptist and then Methodist church. Republican, conservative, went to private Christian school, pro-life, “colorblind” to racism, non-LGBTQ affirming…typical 70s/80s Evangelical culture. And then he asked me such a profound question: “So how did you get here?” As in: How did you change what you believe and the causes you are passionate about? What happened?

I paused. I hadn’t thought about how to explain how my worldview, my understanding of Jesus, and my faith, have changed. It’s been years in the making. An evolution. So how did I get here?

I started by saying, “I think moving to Chicago for my residency was a real flashpoint for me. I left the conservative small town I was raised in. I was suddenly embedded in a place with hundreds of new cultures, religions, traditions, and beliefs. I met so many people different than me. I think that expanded my worldview.” My husband piped up in the background and yelled over “And travel! Travel has changed us.” Yes. Travel. Around the US. Around the world. A flurry of different languages heard on the trains in NYC. The Gullah culture in the South Carolina Lowcountry. Life in rural Honduras without clean water. History in Rome. New flavors in Paris. Feeling small by the Parthenon in Athens.

“Also, reading,” I said. Books have the power to change us if we are humble and curious enough. Books like Isabel Wilkerson’s Caste; Beth Allison Barr’s The Making of Biblical Womanhood; Kristen Kobes du Mez’s Jesus and John Wayne; Katherine Stewart’s The Power Worshippers. And this list goes on and on. (You can check out my reading list here)

And then the scary part. I had to learn to let go of certainty. Uncertainty is a threat to Evangelicals. There is a verse for everything. But “because the Bible says so” can be a slippery slope of proof-texting one’s way to rigid rules and exclusion. I let go of my fear and waded into the waters of mystery. And when I did, I was able to see God’s love for us not in just one verse here and there, but a huge love that isn’t bound by the words from a single line in an ancient text.

I look back now and see that so much of the culture I was raised in was narrow. (No offense, Mom and Dad! I know you have been on this journey with me and I am SO glad we are here together!) Even until recently, the sermons I would hear were all about me. How can I be a better Christian? What did I need to change? How can I serve more at the church? Jesus died for me. And yes, that may all be true, but Jesus was all about everyone else. He looked out and up, to see the most marginalized in society and went to them. To welcome them in. Not to shame them. Not to tell them who they love is a sin. Not to deport them. Not to belittle them. But to shower them with love, and forgiveness without condition, and to make the Kingdom of God more diverse (neither Jew nor Gentile), more inclusive (neither male nor female), where everyone is equal in his eyes.

But mostly it’s the people. It’s the people who change us. The conversations I’ve had. I walked through the terrifying and heartbreaking journey with a dear friend coming out to his family. I have seen the depths of the pain of racism that a colleague has felt. I have been in challenging spiritual conversations with friends who have different views–getting to the why, the how. I personally felt the sting of the Evangelical belief that women cannot hold leadership/pastoral roles in the church. When my voice was silenced, I felt deeply hurt. How could they claim to believe in the teachings of Jesus and yet tell half of His children they aren’t welcome in the same spaces, that there is no seat at the leadership table for them? I began to see that my strong-held beliefs could soften, change, and expand. Having the courage and taking the time to meet people unlike myself has changed me. “It’s hard to hate up close”–Michelle Obama.

So, Uncle Joe. It’s a lot of things. I had to give myself permission to be wrong about some things. I had to be brave enough to let go of some friends who weren’t willing to accept the growth that I’ve had to get to the place I am now. And you, Uncle Joe, you have changed me too. You have shown me that God’s love and mercy are so wide and so deep, that truly all are welcome in his presence. You have shown me that a life of hope and joy and celebration of all of God’s creation is a much better life. Thank you, Uncle Joe. I love you.

Disclaimer: My viewpoints are not necessarily reflective of my employer, or any local, regional or national organization that I belong to. As a matter of fact, I pretty much just speak for myself. Please keep that in mind.