Ever visited your grandma’s house?
I mean really stayed with her — in the village or wherever — long enough for your inner rascal to fully blossom.
You remember how you'd break things she told you not to touch?
That silverware her late husband gave her in 1965? Gone.
Or how you'd play football in her garden, the one she begged you not to destroy?
Or sneak out to play with friends and come back hours late, muddy and bruised?
In your parent's house, that kind of behavior would've gotten you grounded, lectured, or facing criminal charges (literally)
But in Grandma’s house? Oh no.
She’d just sigh.
Shake her head.
Serve you food anyway.
Clean your wounds.
And say something like, "Naughty child, but you’re still my baby."
There’s something irrationally warm about grandma love. It's foolish love. Unfair love. Unjustified love — yet that’s what makes it so safe.
And that, my friend… is Christianity.
Christianity: The Grandma’s House of Religions
It's chaotic.
Messy.
Often full of contradictions.
The children never really behave.
And the world — especially the strict, disciplined neighbors — can’t understand how this house hasn't collapsed although broken.
Islam?
Disciplined. Orderly. Fear-driven like a military academy.
You sin, you pay. There’s a law, a structure. No room for reckless disobedience.
Buddhism?
Peaceful. Still. Silent. Almost monk-like.
You meditate your way to purity.
But Christianity?
It’s a grandma’s house.
A holy chaos.
Where the doors are never locked.
Where the prodigals come home dirty and barefoot.
Where the Father throws a party when logic says He should throw a punch.
Where justice steps aside for a reckless thing called grace.
This is why some people, especially our Muslim siblings, look at Christian nations and shake their heads:
"Look at these wayward Christians. They bring shame to their religion."
But what they don't realize is...
they’re the elder brother in the Prodigal Son story.
They’ve never left the house.
They’ve always followed the rules.
And now they’re bitter watching the dirty boy get a feast.
They don’t understand this kind of family.
Because Christianity isn't fair.
It's love that defies balance.
But this world really need a grandma's love. We live in a world where people search for meaning, discipline, order, and perfection.
But eventually, most hit a wall.
They try everything. Success. Sex. Religion. Power.
And realize all is vanity.
Except one thing:
That foolish, stubborn love…
That kind of granny love…
That looks at you, even when you break her favorite cup, and says:
"Come eat, my dear. I love you still."
It makes no sense.
Not even Solomon could decode it.
But that’s why I’ll always have a soft spot for Christianity.
It’s not because it makes the most sense.
It’s because it’s the only religion where you can be wrong, messy, foolish, and still be welcome home.
So how do we share this love?
Not by preaching rules.
Not by arguing theology.
But by opening the gate to the grandma’s house.
Letting the sinners in.
And letting the aroma of irrational love do what logic never could.
Welcome home.
AI helped in the making of this piece
I mean really stayed with her — in the village or wherever — long enough for your inner rascal to fully blossom.
You remember how you'd break things she told you not to touch?
That silverware her late husband gave her in 1965? Gone.
Or how you'd play football in her garden, the one she begged you not to destroy?
Or sneak out to play with friends and come back hours late, muddy and bruised?
In your parent's house, that kind of behavior would've gotten you grounded, lectured, or facing criminal charges (literally)
But in Grandma’s house? Oh no.
She’d just sigh.
Shake her head.
Serve you food anyway.
Clean your wounds.
And say something like, "Naughty child, but you’re still my baby."
There’s something irrationally warm about grandma love. It's foolish love. Unfair love. Unjustified love — yet that’s what makes it so safe.
And that, my friend… is Christianity.
Christianity: The Grandma’s House of Religions
It's chaotic.
Messy.
Often full of contradictions.
The children never really behave.
And the world — especially the strict, disciplined neighbors — can’t understand how this house hasn't collapsed although broken.
Islam?
Disciplined. Orderly. Fear-driven like a military academy.
You sin, you pay. There’s a law, a structure. No room for reckless disobedience.
Buddhism?
Peaceful. Still. Silent. Almost monk-like.
You meditate your way to purity.
But Christianity?
It’s a grandma’s house.
A holy chaos.
Where the doors are never locked.
Where the prodigals come home dirty and barefoot.
Where the Father throws a party when logic says He should throw a punch.
Where justice steps aside for a reckless thing called grace.
This is why some people, especially our Muslim siblings, look at Christian nations and shake their heads:
"Look at these wayward Christians. They bring shame to their religion."
But what they don't realize is...
they’re the elder brother in the Prodigal Son story.
They’ve never left the house.
They’ve always followed the rules.
And now they’re bitter watching the dirty boy get a feast.
They don’t understand this kind of family.
Because Christianity isn't fair.
It's love that defies balance.
But this world really need a grandma's love. We live in a world where people search for meaning, discipline, order, and perfection.
But eventually, most hit a wall.
They try everything. Success. Sex. Religion. Power.
And realize all is vanity.
Except one thing:
That foolish, stubborn love…
That kind of granny love…
That looks at you, even when you break her favorite cup, and says:
"Come eat, my dear. I love you still."
It makes no sense.
Not even Solomon could decode it.
But that’s why I’ll always have a soft spot for Christianity.
It’s not because it makes the most sense.
It’s because it’s the only religion where you can be wrong, messy, foolish, and still be welcome home.
So how do we share this love?
Not by preaching rules.
Not by arguing theology.
But by opening the gate to the grandma’s house.
Letting the sinners in.
And letting the aroma of irrational love do what logic never could.
Welcome home.
AI helped in the making of this piece
