More condemnation, please!

On parenting grown children, relinquishing control, and the radical inclusiveness of Jesus.

I’ve told my children since they were old enough to understand that there was no scenario in which I could imagine not loving them. No behavior or circumstance would diminish my commitment to them.

What I didn’t anticipate was their collective, inward response: “Challenge accepted.”

😏😂

I’m kidding of course. For the record, I couldn’t have asked for two better human beings. They are, and always have been, people of substance and character, with more wit and integrity than their parents can reasonably claim credit for.

Even so, every now and then, one of them will make a decision that leaves me blinking:

“I did not see that coming.” 😳

I never do.

You’re not the boss of me!

My earlier promise wasn’t theoretical.

That doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes bite my tongue. I’m not a robot.

But we’re all clear on one thing: I’m no longer in charge of their lives.

Some of my friends find that puzzling. In our group, stepping back — even with adult children — can look suspiciously like apathy.

One of my very best friends — someone I love like a sister — has never been shy about wading into her grown children’s decisions (or mine). And I respect her for that.

After one especially surprising move one of my children made, she looked at me and said:

“You should talk them out of it.”

She believes that with her whole being. I understand the instinct; I really do. I just disagree. If they were fifteen, I might have.

At this stage? I’m not so sure.

I have a history.

Out of my own fear, I robbed my children of valuable decision-making lessons when they were teenagers. I’ve apologized many times for sheltering them so thoroughly, and I mean it. How could I take up the arms of control now, all over again?

In hindsight, what’s been revealed about my parenting is sobering: I practiced a form of ownership, even as I convinced myself that what I really wanted was a close relationship.

Birds in a cage, God help me, are easier to manage than those in the wild. They stay close. They behave. What choice do they have? Contained, they offer no evidence of how little control we have.

The tight rein I employed cost my children something, in ways that continue to unfold. Despite their remarkable resilience—and no shortage of grace extended to their mom—I regret nothing more.

But I know where the impulse came from.

Purity culture.

I tried to keep them pure—whatever that means—in a world that felt anything but. In my former faith community, whether spoken outright or simply absorbed over time, I internalized the idea that anything secular was corrosive, that proximity meant contamination, that the wrong influences could seep in and undo everything we were building.

At the time, I sincerely believed hypervigilance was love, and that careful management could preserve their innocence. It felt like my job. If I held the boundaries tightly enough—if I curated the information they consumed and the company they kept (especially the company they kept) with laser precision—I could spare them pain.

Maybe I was trying to spare myself.

I couldn’t. I didn’t.

Not for any of us.

Am I the only one who bought into this?

I suspect not.

Nothing new under the sun.

The instinct to protect through control is an old one.

Is that why Jesus’ choice of dinner guests felt so threatening to some — especially the Pharisees? Their complaint, “Look—He’s eating with tax collectors and sinners!” wasn’t a passing accusation. They returned to that charge again and again.

It was a defensible disqualifier. Given the theological backdrop, it should have worked. It’s hard to imagine why it didn’t.

We often view the Pharisees as legalistic caricatures, but they were no outliers. They were influential guardians of their faith; few could fault their strict adherence to the Law. You may not have heard this before, but the Pharisees were, by and large, respected and trusted by the masses.

I don’t think they objected because they were cold or heartless. Given the religious norms of their time, the company Jesus kept—the unclean—threatened the moral integrity of a people set apart—God’s people.

I understand that all too well.

Under significant social and religious pressure—and not a little public scrutiny—Jesus didn’t retreat. If anything, He doubled down.

Tischgemeinschaft mit Sündern (Jesus Eats with Tax Collectors and Sinners) | Sieger Köder

To be a fly on the wall.

You know what’s missing in the Gospels? Any record of long lectures warning, shaming, or reprimanding those infamous dinner guests. All we really know is that some questionable characters were seen eating with Jesus.

If He regularly admonished his dinner companions, wouldn’t the writers have said so—even underscored it?

What is recorded is their devotion. Tax collectors and prostitutes followed Him. They listened. They stayed. They felt loved—wanted even. And crucially, they returned—again and again.

Who comes back for a second helping of condemnation?

When purity is the obsession, exclusion is inevitable. Yet Jesus was unapologetically inclusive.

I wish I had recognized this earlier. I wish, for my children’s sake, that I had encouraged them to befriend a bigger slice of humanity, not avoid or fear the influence of those who think and live differently.

I can’t go back and raise my children again—to which they shout, “Amen!” Once was enough.

For all of us. 😉

All I can be is different.

May I host a table—a life—that welcomes the glorious diversity of God’s creation.

That’s all I have for today.

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Thoughts? Agreement? Rebuttal?

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But I’m not the boss of you, either. 😉