Every January, we perform the same ritual. We make promises to ourselves: lose weight, save money, read more books, drink less wine, and finally organize that junk drawer that’s been chaos since 2019.

We treat the new year like a blank slate, convinced that this time, this year, we’ll finally become the person we’ve always wanted to be. By February, most of these resolutions have quietly disappeared, replaced by the comfortable rhythms of who we actually are.

But here’s the resolution nobody makes, the one that might actually change your life: Question one belief you inherited but never chose.

Not your habit of hitting snooze. Not your relationship with carbs. Your actual beliefs about life, death, meaning, and purpose. The stories you tell yourself about how the world works. The assumptions you’ve carried since childhood that shape everything you do, think, and feel.

Because, unlike that gym membership you’ll abandon by Valentine’s Day, examining your beliefs can transform not just your year, but your entire understanding of who you are.

The Beliefs We Inherit Without Noticing

Most of us spend our lives carrying beliefs we never consciously chose. We inherit them from parents, teachers, communities, and cultures. They’re woven into the background of our existence so seamlessly that we don’t even recognize them as beliefs. They’re just… reality.

You might believe that success means a certain career, a certain income, a certain lifestyle, because that’s what success meant in your family. You might believe that expressing emotion is a weakness or a strength, depending on the messages you absorbed growing up. You might believe certain religious truths not because you’ve examined them, but because everyone around you believed them first.

These inherited beliefs aren’t necessarily wrong. Some of them serve us beautifully. But many of us have never stopped to ask: Do I actually believe this, or am I just believing what I was taught to believe?

The difference matters because the beliefs we’ve examined and chosen have power. Beliefs we’ve inherited without question become invisible cages.

When Grief Forces the Question

In Joseph’s Letter, Michael Battersby doesn’t choose to examine his beliefs. Grief forces him to. When his wife Margaret dies, all the comfortable religious assurances he’s believed his entire life suddenly feel hollow. “She’s in a better place.” “You’ll see her again.” “God has a plan.”

These phrases, meant to comfort, become unbearable questions. Is she in a better place? Will he see her again? And if he can’t know for certain, what was the point of believing it at all?

So Michael does something radical: he searches for proof. He becomes obsessed with finding Joseph’s Letter, an ancient document that might prove the Shroud of Turin is authentic, which would mean the resurrection was real, which would mean Margaret still exists somewhere, somehow, beyond death.

His journey isn’t about losing faith. It’s about refusing to accept inherited certainty when his heart demands real answers.

Most of us won’t go to Michael’s extremes. But we all reach moments when inherited beliefs stop working. Sometimes it’s grief. Sometimes it’s trauma. Sometimes it’s just growing up and realizing that the stories we were told don’t match the reality we’re living.

These moments are invitations. Not to abandon everything we believe, but to examine whether we believe it or we’re just pretending we do.

The Difference Between Belief and Certainty

Here’s what makes this resolution so uncomfortable: examining your beliefs means accepting that you might be wrong.

We’re not taught to do this. We’re taught that strong believers are certain believers. That doubt is weakness. That questioning is betrayal. So we perform certainty even when we don’t feel it. We defend beliefs we’ve never actually examined because examining them feels like admitting defeat.

But certainty isn’t the same as belief. Certainty is what you perform for other people. Belief is what you hold when nobody’s watching.

You can believe something deeply while acknowledging you might be wrong. You can have faith while leaving room for doubt. You can hold religious convictions while questioning religious institutions. You can love the teachings while recognizing the Church’s failures.

This nuance terrifies people. Because if we admit we don’t know everything for certain, what do we have left?

We have something better: honest faith. Faith that’s chosen, not inherited. Faith that’s examined, not assumed. Faith that can withstand questions because it was built through questions.

What Happens When You Start Questioning

When you start examining inherited beliefs, several things happen. None of them are comfortable. All of them are necessary.

First, you realize how many of your beliefs aren’t actually yours. You thought you believed certain things about success, morality, relationships, or spirituality. Then you start asking why you believe them and discover you don’t have an answer beyond “that’s what I was taught.”

Second, you lose certainty. This feels terrifying. Certainty is comfortable. Doubt is destabilizing. But certainty without examination is just performed confidence. Real belief can hold uncertainty.

Third, you disappoint people. When you start questioning inherited beliefs, people who share those beliefs feel threatened. Your doubt becomes an accusation. Your questions sound like betrayal. This is especially true in religious communities where questioning is equated with losing faith.

Fourth, you build something real. Once you’ve examined your beliefs and chosen which ones to keep, they become yours. Not your parents’. Not your community’s. Yours. And that gives them a power inherited beliefs never had.

The Beliefs Worth Examining This January

So what beliefs should you question? Here are the big ones, the beliefs that shape everything else:

Your beliefs about death. Do you believe in an afterlife? Heaven? Reincarnation? Nothingness? And more importantly, why do you believe it? Is it because you’ve examined the possibilities, or because the alternative is too terrifying to consider?

Your beliefs about meaning. Do you believe life has inherent meaning, or that we create our own? Do you believe in a divine plan, or do you believe things happen randomly? And how does that belief actually affect how you live?

Your beliefs about morality. Where do your moral convictions come from? Religious teaching? Cultural norms? Personal experience? And when those sources contradict each other, which one wins?

Your beliefs about institutions. Do you trust the institutions you belong to? Religious organizations? Political parties? Educational systems? And if you don’t trust the institution, can you still value what it represents?

Your beliefs about yourself. This might be the hardest one. What do you believe about your own worth, capability, and purpose? And how much of that belief was formed by messages you absorbed before you were old enough to question them?

These aren’t easy questions. But that’s the point. Easy answers are usually inherited answers. Real answers require work.

6 Steps to Actually Do This Resolution

So how do you examine beliefs you’ve held your entire life? Here’s a framework that works:

1. Pick one belief to examine. Don’t try to question everything at once. That’s overwhelming. Pick one significant belief and commit to really thinking about it.
2. Ask yourself why you believe it. Not whether it’s true. Why do you believe it? Is it because you’ve examined the evidence? Because someone you trust told you? Because the alternative is unbearable?
3. Consider the opposite. What if you’re wrong? Not in a catastrophic way, just hypothetically. What if the belief you hold isn’t accurate? How would that change how you live?
4. Read perspectives that challenge you. Find thoughtful people who believe differently. Not to convert you, but to show you there are other ways of seeing the world. This is where fiction like Joseph’s Letter becomes valuable. Stories let us explore challenging ideas in safe ways.
5. Give yourself permission to doubt. Doubt isn’t betrayal. It’s honesty. If your belief can’t withstand questions, it wasn’t very strong to begin with.
6. Decide consciously. After examining the belief, decide if you still hold it. Maybe you do. Maybe you can modify it. Maybe you let it go. Whatever you choose, it’s now your choice, not an inherited assumption.

Why This Matters More Than Your Other Resolutions

Here’s the truth about New Year’s resolutions: most of them are about control. We want to control our bodies, our schedules, and our productivity. We want to feel like we’re improving ourselves through sheer willpower.

But examining your beliefs isn’t about control. It’s about authenticity. It’s about living according to what you actually believe rather than what you were taught to believe. And that changes everything.

When you live according to examined beliefs, your decisions make sense. Your priorities align. Your life feels more coherent because you’re not carrying contradictions you’ve never acknowledged.

You stop performing certainty and start living honestly. You stop defending beliefs you don’t actually hold. You stop pretending faith means never having questions.

And paradoxically, this makes your beliefs stronger. Because faith tested is more resilient than faith protected. Beliefs you’ve chosen have more power than beliefs you’ve inherited.

The Invitation

This January, while everyone else is meal prepping and buying gym memberships, consider a different resolution: Question one inherited belief.

Not to destroy it. Not to become cynical. But to find out if what you believe is actually what you believe, or if you’re just carrying someone else’s certainty.

Read something challenging. Ask uncomfortable questions. Sit with doubt. Let yourself not know for a while.

Because the goal isn’t to have all the answers, the goal is to make sure your beliefs are yours.

Michael Battersby’s search for Joseph’s Letter is extreme. Most of us won’t travel to Egypt searching for ancient scrolls. But we can all do the deeper work of examining what we believe and why we believe it.

That’s the resolution nobody makes, but everyone should. Because, unlike the gym membership, this one might actually change your life.

Want to explore these questions through a story? Joseph’s Letter follows Michael Battersby as grief forces him to examine everything he thought he knew about faith, death, and meaning. Download the first chapter free and start your own journey of questioning.

December 31st. The threshold between years.

Behind you: 2025 with all its questions, all its losses, all its moments when what you believed was tested and sometimes broken.

Ahead: 2026. Unknown. Uncertain. Full of possibility or dread, depending on your perspective.

You’re standing in the doorway. One foot in the past, one foot in the future.

This is a threshold moment. And threshold moments demand a particular kind of courage: the willingness to look honestly at what you’re leaving behind and what you’re choosing to carry forward.

For many of us, 2025 didn’t just test our circumstances. It tested our faith. Not just religious faith, but faith in institutions, in systems, in people, in the stories we’ve told ourselves about how the world works and what we believe.

Some of that faith survived. Some of it didn’t.

And now, at the threshold, you have to decide: What version of faith, what version of yourself, crosses into the new year?

What Makes a Threshold Moment Sacred

Humans have always recognized the power of thresholds.

In architecture, thresholds separate sacred from profane, inside from outside, private from public.
In mythology, heroes cross thresholds into the underworld, into other realms, into transformation.
In religious ritual, thresholds mark transitions: baptism (birth to new life), marriage (single to partnered), death (life to whatever comes next).

Thresholds are liminal spaces. You’re no longer who you were, but not yet who you’ll become.

And that in-between space? It’s uncomfortable. Uncertain. Sometimes terrifying.

But it’s also where transformation happens.

The Threshold Michael Battersby Faces

In Joseph’s Letter, Michael Battersby stands at multiple thresholds.

The Threshold of Grief

Margaret’s death leaves him suspended between his old life (married, certain, hopeful) and an unknown future (alone, questioning, desperate for proof that love survives).

He can’t go back. But he doesn’t know how to move forward.

So he searches. He pursues Joseph’s Letter, a document that might provide historical evidence of resurrection. If he can prove the Shroud of Turin is authentic, if he can confirm that the resurrection happened, then maybe he can believe Margaret isn’t just gone.

The Threshold of Faith

But the search forces Michael to confront uncomfortable questions:

What if the institution protecting these secrets has been lying?
What if the evidence is inconclusive?
What if faith can’t be proven, only chosen?

He’s caught between the comfortable faith he inherited (accept what the Church teaches) and an authentic belief that might be messier, more uncertain, but more honest.

The Threshold of Identity

Michael begins the novel as a grief-stricken widower. But through his search, he becomes something else: a seeker. A questioner. Someone willing to risk everything for the truth.

That transformation happens at the threshold. In the uncertainty. In the not-knowing.

The Faith You Inherited vs. The Faith You Build

Let’s talk about inherited faith.

Most of us didn’t choose our first beliefs. We absorbed them.

From parents. From the community. From culture. From institutions.

Maybe you grew up Catholic and never questioned transubstantiation until adulthood.
Maybe you inherited Protestantism’s “faith alone” doctrine without examining it.
Maybe you absorbed secular materialism from academia without realizing it’s also a belief system.

Inherited faith isn’t bad. But it’s also not examined.

And at some point, often triggered by crisis, loss, or disillusionment, you reach a threshold where inherited faith no longer suffices.

You start asking questions:

– Do I actually believe this, or do I just believe I’m supposed to believe it?
– Does this align with my lived experience, or am I maintaining cognitive dissonance?
– If I could rebuild my faith from scratch, what would I keep and what would I discard?

This is terrifying. Because on the other side of that threshold, you don’t know what your faith will look like.

But it’s also liberating. Because whatever faith you build, even if it’s smaller, messier, more uncertain than what you inherited, it will be yours.

What 2025 Tested (And What Survived)

Think back over 2025. What got tested?

Trust in Institutions

Maybe you watched religious leaders defend the indefensible.
Maybe you saw political systems prioritize power over people.
Maybe you realized corporations, media, or social structures you trusted were corrupt.

Question: Will you carry institutional trust into 2026, or rebuild it with higher standards?

Certainty About Beliefs

Maybe you experienced doubt for the first time.
Maybe you questioned doctrines you’d never examined.
Maybe you realized you don’t actually believe everything you claim to believe.

Question: Will you carry unexamined certainty into 2026, or embrace honest uncertainty?

Faith in People

Maybe someone you trusted betrayed that trust.
Maybe a mentor, friend, or leader revealed themselves to be less than you believed.
Maybe you learned that people are more complex, more flawed, more human than your idealized version.

Question: Will you carry cynicism into 2026, or rebuild trust with wisdom?

Belief in Your Own Story

Maybe you thought you’d be further along by now.
Maybe you thought you’d have more figured out.
Maybe you thought your faith journey would be cleaner, more linear, more certain.

Question: Will you carry shame about your questions into 2026, or accept that the journey is the point?

The Courage to Leave Things Behind

Standing at the threshold means making choices.

Not everything crosses with you. Some things have to be left behind.

Leave Behind: Certainty That Was Never Real

If 2025 taught you that you don’t have all the answers, good.

Carry forward: Honest uncertainty. The willingness to say “I don’t know” without shame.

Leave Behind: Loyalty to Institutions That Don’t Deserve It

If 2025 showed you that an institution you trusted prioritizes power over truth, stop defending it.

Carry forward: Discernment. The ability to love a tradition while holding its leaders accountable.

Leave Behind: Performance of Faith

If you’ve been performing certainty you don’t feel, stop.

Carry forward: Authenticity. Even if your faith is smaller, let it be real.

Leave Behind: Shame About Doubt

If you’ve been ashamed of your questions, release that.

Carry forward: Pride in your willingness to question. It’s courage, not weakness.

Leave Behind: The Need for Tidy Answers

If you’ve been demanding a resolution to every question, let that go.

Carry forward: Comfort with mystery. Peace with not knowing.

What to Carry Forward Into 2026

But threshold moments aren’t just about release. They’re also about intention.

What do you want to carry into the new year?

Carry Forward: Questions Worth Living

Rainer Maria Rilke wrote: “Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

What questions are you living into?

– What does authentic faith look like for me?
– How do I build belief that can withstand scrutiny?
– What do I want to be true about life, death, and meaning?

Don’t rush to answer them. Carry them forward. Live into them.

Carry Forward: Relationships That Survived Testing

2025 tested relationships. Some broke. Some bent but held.

The ones that held? The people who stayed when you questioned, who didn’t demand certainty from you, who honored your search?

Carry them forward. Invest in them. They’re rare.

Carry Forward: The Parts of Faith That Feel True

Even if you’re questioning everything, some things probably still resonate.

Maybe you’re not sure about institutional religion, but love still feels sacred.
Maybe you’re uncertain about doctrines, but community still matters.
Maybe you’re questioning theology, but compassion still compels you.

Carry forward what feels true. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s provisional.

Carry Forward: Your Willingness to Search

Michael Battersby doesn’t find perfect answers in Joseph’s Letter. But he finds something more valuable: the courage to keep searching.

That courage? Carry it forward.

Carry Forward: Hope That Isn’t Dependent on Certainty

This is the hardest one.

Can you hope without knowing?
Can you believe without proof?
Can you trust that meaning exists even when you can’t define it?

That kind of hope, fragile, uncertain, but persistent, is the most resilient faith there is.

Ritual for the Threshold: A Year-End Practice

If you want to mark this threshold moment intentionally, try this:

1. Write Down What You’re Leaving Behind

On a piece of paper, list:
– Beliefs you no longer hold
– Certainties that were illusions
– Shame you’re releasing
– Institutions you’re no longer defending

2. Burn It (Or Tear It Up)

Literally. Symbolically release it.

You’re not erasing your past. You’re acknowledging what you’re choosing not to carry forward.

3. Write Down What You’re Carrying Forward

On a new piece of paper, list:
– Questions you’re living into
– Values you’re committing to
– Relationships you’re investing in
– Small truths that feel authentic

4. Place It Somewhere You’ll See It

This isn’t a resolution. It’s a reminder.

When 2026 tests you (and it will), you’ll need to remember what you chose to carry across the threshold.

5. Light a Candle

One small light in the dark.

You don’t know what 2026 holds. But you know you’re willing to search. To question. To hope.

That’s enough.

Reflection Questions: What Will You Choose?

💭 What belief died in 2025 that you’re still grieving?
It’s okay to mourn what you’ve lost, even if it was an illusion.

💭 What question are you most afraid to ask?
What would happen if you asked it anyway?

💭 Who in your life has earned your trust by staying through your doubts?
Have you told them?

💭 If you could carry only three things into 2026, three values, three commitments, three beliefs, what would they be?
Everything else is negotiable.

💭 What would it mean to define success in 2026 not by answers but by the quality of your questions?
Can you be proud of your search even if you never arrive?

The Threshold Is Sacred

Joseph’s Letter ends ambiguously. Michael doesn’t get perfect resolution. He doesn’t find incontrovertible proof.

But he finds something more important: the willingness to live in uncertainty with integrity.

That’s what threshold moments demand.

You don’t get to know what’s on the other side before you cross. You just have to decide: Will I cross with courage? With honesty? With hope?

The new year is coming whether you’re ready or not.

But you get to choose what version of yourself, what version of faith, what version of hope crosses that threshold.

Choose wisely. Choose honestly. Choose with courage.

📖 Download the first chapter of Joseph’s Letter and walk with Michael through his threshold moment.

👉 Get Your Free Chapter Here

Join the Conversation About Faith in Transition

Standing at thresholds is easier when you’re not alone.

If this post resonated with you:
✅ Leave a comment sharing what you’re leaving behind and what you’re carrying forward

Because transformation happens at thresholds. And thresholds are better crossed together.

About the Author:
Robert Parsons is the author of Joseph’s Letter, a novel exploring what happens when grief forces you to question everything you thought you believed. After decades of teaching religion and watching students navigate their own threshold moments, Robert understands that authentic faith is built, not inherited.

His mission is simple: encourage people to think outside the box about religion, embrace uncertainty as part of growth, and have the courage to rebuild belief from the ground up when inherited faith no longer fits.

December 21st, 2025. The winter solstice. The longest night of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.

For thousands of years, humans have marked this moment not with fear but with celebration. Because while December 21st is the darkest day, it’s also a turning point: from here forward, the days grow longer. Light begins its slow return.

Christians light Advent candles and celebrate Christ’s birth. Jews light the menorah for eight nights of Hanukkah. Ancient pagans lit bonfires for Yule. Romans honored Sol Invictus, the “unconquered sun.” Persians celebrated Yalda. Indigenous cultures worldwide marked the solstice with ceremony and firelight.

Same season. Same symbolism. Different stories.

What if the deepest truths transcend any single tradition? What if the search for light in darkness is the most universal human experience we have?

And what does that mean for how we understand faith, belief, and the stories we inherit?

The Winter Solstice: Nature’s Darkest Moment

Let’s start with the science, because the science is profound.

Earth’s axis tilts 23.5 degrees. As we orbit the sun, this tilt means that for half the year, the Northern Hemisphere leans toward the sun (summer), and for half the year, it leans away (winter).

The winter solstice occurs when the North Pole is tilted farthest from the sun. The result: the shortest day and longest night of the year.

For ancient peoples without electric lights, without central heating, without the technological buffers that insulate modern humans from nature’s rhythms, this was existential.

Would the sun return? Would warmth come back? Would crops grow again?

They didn’t have astrophysics to reassure them. They had observation, tradition, and faith.

So they lit fires. They told stories. They created rituals to mark the turning point, the moment when darkness reaches its peak and light begins its return.

Every major religion grew from cultures that needed to make meaning of this moment.

Christmas: The Christian Response to Darkness

Let’s address the obvious: Jesus was not born on December 25th.

Biblical scholars generally agree that if the Gospel accounts are historically accurate, Jesus was likely born in spring or early fall (shepherds wouldn’t be “keeping watch over their flocks by night” in winter).

So why December 25th?

Because the early Christian church was smart about cultural adaptation.

Sol Invictus and the Unconquered Sun

In 274 CE, Roman Emperor Aurelian established December 25th as the feast of Sol Invictus, the unconquered sun. This celebration marked the moment when the sun begins its “rebirth,” growing stronger each day after the solstice.

Early Christians, evangelizing in a Roman-dominated world, co-opted this date. They reframed it: the light being born isn’t the physical sun. It’s the “light of the world”, Christ.

Saturnalia: Rome’s Winter Celebration

Before Sol Invictus, Romans celebrated Saturnalia in mid-December: a festival of gift-giving, feasting, role reversals, and temporary social equality.

Sound familiar?

The Christmas traditions we practice, gift exchange, feasting, and decorating with greenery, aren’t originally Christian. They’re adaptations of pre-existing winter celebrations.

The Symbolism: Light Conquering Darkness

But here’s what matters: the Christians weren’t just stealing holidays. They were recognizing something true.

The metaphor of light conquering darkness resonates because it’s human, universal, and profound.

In John 1:5, the Gospel writer proclaims: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

This isn’t just about Jesus. It’s about hope. About the human refusal to let darkness have the final word.

Hanukkah: The Jewish Festival of Lights

Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights, commemorates a specific historical event: the rededication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem around 165 BCE after the Maccabean revolt against Greek-Syrian oppression.

According to tradition, when the Jews reclaimed the temple, they found only enough consecrated oil to keep the menorah lit for one day. Miraculously, it burned for eight.

The Deeper Symbolism

But like Christmas, Hanukkah’s timing isn’t accidental.

It falls near the winter solstice. It involves lighting candles in darkness, one more each night until all eight are lit.

The historical specificity (the Maccabean revolt) is important. But the metaphor transcends it:

Light persists against impossible odds. Hope surviving oppression. The refusal to let darkness win.

This is why Hanukkah resonates beyond its historical moment. It speaks to the universal human experience of resisting forces that try to extinguish your light.

Yule: The Pagan Celebration of Rebirth

Long before Christianity reached Northern Europe, Germanic and Scandinavian peoples celebrated Yule: a midwinter festival marking the solstice.

The Yule Log

Families would burn a massive log throughout the longest night, symbolizing the sun’s warmth and ensuring its return. Celebrations included feasting, decorating with evergreens (symbols of life persisting through winter), and honoring the cyclical nature of death and rebirth.

What Christianity Absorbed

When Christianity spread north, it didn’t erase these traditions. It absorbed them.

The Yule log became a Christmas tradition.
Evergreen decorations became Christmas trees.
The concept of winter feasting became Christmas dinner.

Why? Because the underlying truth remained the same: humans need rituals to mark the turn from darkness to light.

The stories changed. The symbolism endured.

Other Cultures, Same Truth

Yalda Night (Persian/Zoroastrian)

In Iran and surrounding regions, Yalda Night (Shab-e Yalda) celebrates the longest night. Families gather, eat pomegranates and watermelon (symbols of the sun), read poetry, and stay awake to welcome the sun’s rebirth.

The celebration predates Islam and connects to Zoroastrian cosmology: the eternal battle between light (Ahura Mazda) and darkness (Angra Mainyu).

Dongzhi Festival (East Asian)

In China, Taiwan, Japan, Korea, and Vietnam, the Dongzhi Festival marks the winter solstice with family gatherings and specific foods (like tangyuan, glutinous rice balls symbolizing reunion and completion).

The philosophical foundation comes from yin and yang: at the solstice, yin (darkness) reaches its peak, but from this moment, yang (light) begins to grow.

Soyal (Hopi)

The Hopi people of the American Southwest perform the Soyal ceremony to symbolically turn the sun back toward summer. It involves purification rituals, prayer, and the Kachinas (spiritual beings) returning to the village.

Inti Raymi (Incan, Southern Hemisphere)

While the Northern Hemisphere experiences the winter solstice in December, the Southern Hemisphere experiences it in June. The Inca celebrated Inti Raymi, the Festival of the Sun, to honor the sun god Inti and pray for the sun’s return.

Same impulse. Different hemisphere. Universal human need.

What This Reveals About Faith and Truth

Here’s where it gets philosophically interesting.

If every major religion and culture has a winter festival celebrating light conquering darkness, what does that tell us?

Option 1: They’re All Copying Each Other

Maybe. Cultural diffusion happens. Traditions spread through conquest, trade, and migration.

But that doesn’t explain why geographically isolated cultures (Hopi in North America, Incas in South America, Zoroastrians in Persia) independently developed similar symbolism.

Option 2: They’re All Responding to the Same Human Experience

This seems more likely.

Humans everywhere experience darkness. Literally (winter) and metaphorically (suffering, uncertainty, grief).

Humans everywhere crave light. Literally (the sun’s return) and metaphorically (hope, meaning, transcendence).

The specific stories differ. The underlying truth remains constant.

Option 3: There’s Something Transcendent Being Expressed Imperfectly

This is where it gets interesting for people of faith.

What if all these traditions, Christian, Jewish, Pagan, Zoroastrian, Hopi, Incan, are different cultures trying to express the same transcendent reality?

What if “God” or “the Divine” or “ultimate truth” is bigger than any single tradition’s ability to capture it?

What if the light metaphor appears universally because it’s pointing to something real, something that every human culture intuitively recognizes, even if we name it differently?

What Joseph’s Letter Asks About Universal Truth

In Joseph’s Letter, Michael Battersby searches for proof of Christian resurrection. But his journey forces him to confront a bigger question:

What if the truth is more complex than any single religious tradition admits?

Michael isn’t trying to destroy faith. He’s trying to find an authentic belief that can withstand scrutiny.

And what he discovers, what many seekers discover, is that institutional religion often demands exclusive truth claims that reality doesn’t support.

“Only Christians have the real story.”
“Only Jews understand God’s covenant.”
“Only our tradition holds the key.”

But when you step back and look at humanity’s collective wisdom traditions, you see patterns. You see the same truths emerging independently across cultures:

– Light conquers darkness
– Love transcends death
– Meaning can be found in suffering
– The divine reveals itself in vulnerability
– Community matters more than individual triumph

What if these recurring patterns aren’t accidents? What if they’re pointing to something true?

How to Honor the Solstice in 2025 (Regardless of Your Beliefs)

You don’t have to abandon your tradition to recognise the universal truth it participates in.

A Christian can celebrate Christmas and acknowledge that the light metaphor predates Christianity.
A Jew can honor Hanukkah and recognize similar celebrations worldwide.
A secular person can mark the solstice and appreciate the deep human wisdom in these traditions.

1. Acknowledge the Darkness

December 21st is the longest night. Don’t rush past it.

What darkness are you carrying? What uncertainty? What grief?

Sit with it. Name it. Honor it.

2. Light a Candle (Literally or Metaphorically)

You don’t need a religious framework to recognise the power of lighting something small in the dark.

Light a candle. Build a fire. Turn on a lamp.

And as you do, acknowledge: I am choosing to create light in my own darkness.

3. Connect With Others

Every winter celebration involves community. Gathering. Feasting. Sharing warmth.

Don’t isolate. Reach out. Share the longest night with someone.

4. Tell Stories

Humans are story-making creatures. We need narratives to make meaning of experience.

What story are you telling yourself about this dark season of your life? Is it a story of despair? Or is it a story of waiting for light’s return?

You get to choose the narrative frame.

5. Trust the Turning

The solstice is a turning point. After this, light returns.

Not all at once. Not immediately. But slowly, steadily, inevitably.

Whatever darkness you’re in, personal, spiritual, collective, it won’t last forever.

The earth turns. The seasons change. Light comes back.

Trust the turning.

Reflection Questions: What Light Are You Waiting For?

💭 What do you make of the fact that every culture celebrates light conquering darkness?
Coincidence? Cultural diffusion? Or something deeper?

💭 Can you honor your own tradition while recognising universal patterns?
Does acknowledging similarity diminish uniqueness, or does it reveal deeper truth?

💭 What darkness in your life feels like the longest night?
Where are you waiting for the light to return?

💭 If all religions are responding to the same human experience, what does that mean for exclusive truth claims?
Can multiple traditions be “true” simultaneously?

💭 What small light can you create in your own darkness today?
Not a solution. Not a transformation. Just one small candle.

The Search for Light Continues

Joseph’s Letter is ultimately about the search for light in darkness, for proof that death isn’t the end, that love survives, that meaning exists even in grief.

Michael Battersby’s journey takes him across continents, through ancient texts, and into Vatican secrets. But what he’s really searching for is the same thing humans have always searched for:

The conviction that darkness doesn’t get the final word.

That’s Christmas. That’s Hanukkah. That’s Yule. That’s Yalda. That’s Dongzhi. That’s every winter celebration humanity has ever created.

Different stories. Same truth.

📖 Download the first chapter and join Michael’s search for light in the darkness.

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Join the Conversation About Universal Truth

The search for light is better when we walk it together, across traditions, across beliefs, across differences.

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Because the light belongs to all of us.

About the Author:
Robert Parsons is the author of Joseph’s Letter, a novel exploring faith, doubt, and the search for truth that transcends institutional boundaries. After decades of teaching comparative religion to adolescents, Robert understands that authentic faith can honour tradition while recognising universal patterns. His mission is simple: encourage people to think outside the box about religion, seek truth wherever it appears, and build bridges between traditions rather than walls.