Rereading Genesis 1 helped me remember that our role in this world is to subdue as God subdues and to steward as God stewards God’s beloved creation. We often become too self-focused, believing only humans matter.
I have been on this good earth for 75 years. Only a recent colonoscopy had me doubting my age and wondering if perhaps it was time to “move over” and let others take my place. Preparing for the procedure is an exercise in starvation and constant trotting to the bathroom, which, if nothing else, creates a deep sense of gratitude for indoor plumbing.
I am a private person and always have been. Once, while visiting an aunt and uncle in Goldthwaite, Texas, we were sent outside behind the barn to relieve ourselves.
I returned without having gone because the cows were watching. Even a two-hole outhouse left me wondering, “Who would do this?”
Repeatedly, God looked over what God was creating and said it was “good.” Of course it was; that is the kind of Creator God is. Most of us, like Israel, have spent lifetimes trying to understand that simple trait of God.
Even in the sparse rural area outside Taylor, Texas, there is beauty to behold: the rolling hills, the creeks that fill when it rains, the spring wildflowers, and the local flora and fauna. Throughout my life, I have enjoyed snow-capped mountains, majestic waterfalls, and plants with extraordinary seasonal blooms.
Even in the broken world of Genesis 3, we live in a landscape created by a gracious and loving God. I have watched whales breach, porpoises swim majestically, birds fly in perfect formation, and fascinating creatures float upon the water. I have watched swans and geese (best observed at a distance) and playful squirrels who remind me of a carefree childhood full of racing, scampering, and climbing.
Growing up in West Texas, where the night sky was expansive and unhindered by clouds, mountains, or trees, one could get lost gazing at the stars from horizon to horizon. Occasionally, we would see a shooting star race across the sky; very occasionally, a fully formed rainbow would stretch from one end of the earth to the other.
I have seen zebras in the wild and watched wildebeests traveling with them— partners drawn together for survival because one has keen eyesight and the other acute hearing and smell.
I have spent my life expanding my knowledge of scripture, history, and life in general. A coworker at the prison where I worked once called what I had learned a “plethora of useless information.” I was mostly amazed he knew the word plethora.
Through this lifelong learning, I taught myself counseling skills to use in my churches, specifically regarding grief and how it expresses itself differently across people, situations, and time. Learning has helped me see the beauty of the larger world, the things humans share in common, the manifestations of evil, and the depths of our inner lives. In all of this, I have come to believe “kingdom work” involves seeing others through the same lens of grace we aspire to see ourselves— a grace we too often withhold.
The more one learns, the simpler the world becomes— easier to connect, to understand, and to share compassion. God designed reality to be seen, understood, and used in ways that show gratitude and wisdom. The more scientists look into the different facets of this world, the more they discover the hidden infrastructure— how it can be harnessed for good but, sadly, also corrupted for evil.
With modern imaging technology, we can look inside a patient, into the ground, or out into the universe. Daily, we rely on this technology to help doctors see deep into the body’s hidden highways of nerves and blood vessels, as well as the framework of bone and muscle.
When imaging looks within, the coating of the skin and its color become irrelevant. Like caramel M&M’s, which I have grown too fond of, the difference is only in the shade of the coating.
Humans are not that simple— and yet we are. We are complex, shaped by family, culture, and aspiration; our simplicity lies in our shared humanity.
As we set out from our homes to explore the world, we encounter others who are both like us and unlike us. Our lineages follow different paths, yet they lead back to one beginning.
We are human, created in love by God and, in my faith, included in the sacrifice of Christ. This was my personal mantra as I walked the halls of the Allan B. Polunsky Unit, the maximum-security prison housing death row: “I will not meet anyone today who is not loved by God and for whom Christ has not died.”
How long will it take for people of faith to understand that?
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A private practice counselor working with veterans and survivors of trauma. Previously, Chancellor served four churches in Texas for 33 years, then ran a Mental Health Department of Alan B. Polunsky Maximum Security prison which houses death row.
