Hear me out.

The ache was never the money. The ache is not being heard. I'm not looking to be financed — I'm looking to be heard. That's why I give everything I make away, for free. So I'm saying it where it can't be vetoed — out loud, with the door open.

The card

It's Father's Day, and there are two empty chairs. We've loved and lost two good men — and on this day, the quiet is loud.

I keep thinking we should all be in the same room. We're not. And I'm tired of spending the hard days counting who isn't here. I'd rather count who still could be.

This isn't a card about who's right. None of us is — Romans says it plain, all fall short — and that's the mercy in it: nobody stands above anybody, so we're all free to come home.

I'm sorry for my part in the distance. I mean that.

I think of every one of you — my mother, my sisters, the family I was born into and the family I gained — and the ones who carry our name forward, the kids I'm lucky enough to be an uncle to. I don't want one more chair to empty before we figure this out. We all deserve better than a family that loves each other from separate rooms.

And to the kids — I won't put your names out here; you don't need that from me. But know your uncle isn't going anywhere. The door's open for you too, always.

And to the one who keeps answering — the brother who showed up to move my washer when I needed hands — thank you. That's the whole thing, right there.

I'm asking for grace, and I'm offering it. The door is open, and it stays open — today, and every day after.

Happy Father's Day. I love you all. Let's be in the same room again.

— Sean. Son, brother, and Uncle Sean — with the door open.

The sermon

It's Father's Day, and there are two empty chairs. We have loved and lost two good men.

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." — Matthew 5:4
"Weep with those who weep." — Romans 12:15

But we haven't been weeping together — we've been weeping in separate rooms. And I've come to believe that's the wound underneath all the others.

So let me begin where grace begins: "all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God" (Romans 3:23). Every one of us — me first. And as I understand him, Pope Francis said something close to this: that we are called to show mercy because mercy was first shown to us — and that mercy is the fullness of justice, the most radiant manifestation of God's truth. (That's my own recollection of him, not a scholar's citation — take it as one man's understanding.) If it's true — and I believe it is — no one in this family stands above another. We all need the same mercy, which means we're all free to give it.

Paul says we've been handed "the ministry of reconciliation," that God was "not counting people's sins against them" (2 Corinthians 5:18–19). And Jesus was blunt about the order: "First go and be reconciled to your brother; then come and offer your gift" (Matthew 5:24). Reconciliation comes first. "Bear with each other and forgive one another… as the Lord forgave you" (Colossians 3:13). "Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving each other" (Ephesians 4:32).

You know the story Jesus told about the son who came home. "While he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him" (Luke 15:20). The father didn't wait with a list. He ran. That's the God I believe in, and the family I want us to be — the kind that runs to each other while we're still a long way off.

So on this Father's Day I hold every one of you before God — my mother, my sisters, the family I was born into and the family I gained, and the children who carry our name forward — and the two good men we've lost. Every one of us deserves better than a family that loves from separate rooms. We all deserve the running father.

And to the one already holding the door open — the brother who answers when I reach out, who showed up to move my washer when I needed hands — thank you. "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted" (Psalm 34:18) — and so are the people who simply show up.

I'm sorry for my part in the distance, and I name myself first among those who let the room empty. I am not God. I am not perfect. I am very far from it. But I believe forgiveness heals every wound. So I am asking for grace, peace, and reconciliation — and offering the same to each of you.

The door is open. It stays open. And like the father in the story, I'll be watching the road.

Happy Father's Day. I love you all. Come home.

— Sean. Son, brother, and Uncle Sean — with the door open.