When I finished reading The Last Sinner,
I didn’t feel like I had adopted a new theology.
Something inside me had simply… loosened.
For so many years, I had worked so hard—not to be abandoned by God,
to believe just right, to be safe.
But as I read, that striving began to feel sad.
Was God’s love ever based on my value?
Or my ability to believe?
That thought unraveled me.
It wasn’t just comforting. It was shocking.
Maybe the God I had been serving… wasn’t always Christ.
Maybe it was a God I had made—in my own image.
Soon, the word 'hope' began to mean something different.
It wasn’t optimism.
It wasn’t possibility.
It was already happening.
It was the reality of salvation, already begun on the Cross.
Hope wasn’t 'maybe it’ll all work out.'
It was trust that love already poured out… would bear fruit.
No one is forced to receive it.
But no one is excluded from the invitation.
And that hope didn’t make me arrogant.
It made me fall to my knees.
If God is really that full of mercy…
then I want to give myself to Him again.