The Three Little Pigs

​ A Process-Relational Theology
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We all seek security and safety. We build houses of one kind or another—straw, sticks, or brick. So it was with the three pigs. But the strongest houses are not those that shut others out; they are the ones that welcome others in. Ask the third pig. The strongest houses are not made of fear. They are made of relationships. The bricks are love, generosity, simplicity, and service.

The Story

Once upon a time, three pigs set out to build lives of their own. Their names have been forgotten, but their stories remain.

The first pig built a house of straw. It was light and easy, and he filled it with cushions, music, good food, and laughter. He lived for the moment, chasing pleasure wherever it flickered—warm baths, long naps, new thrills. “Life is short,” he said. “Why not enjoy it?” He loved the feel of the breeze through his straw walls. But when the wolf came—unexpected, as wolves do—he found there was nothing to hold it back. The wind of pain, illness, or despair swept in and scattered the life he had built. And he was left afraid, alone, and bewildered.

The second pig built a house of sticks. Not flimsy, not foolish—sharp lines, good structure. He filled it with polished mirrors and framed degrees, a smart car out front, and a list of goals on the fridge. He lived for success: for making something of himself, for being seen and admired. “Life is a project,” he said. “And I’m building mine well.” He loved the strong click of his shoes on the clean floor. But when the wolf came—a layoff, a diagnosis, a betrayal, a deep doubt—he found that image and accomplishment could not shield him. The house bent, cracked, and collapsed. And he too was lost.

The third pig built a house of brick. It was slow going. The materials were heavy. But each brick was laid with intention: one for love, one for humility, one for simplicity, one for service to others. Inside, the house was quiet, warm, and unadorned. She lived not for applause or escape, but for relationship—for beauty, kindness, and the courage to stay with suffering. “Life is a gift,” she said. “And I want to give something back.” When the wolf came—and it always does—she welcomed it at the door. “I know you,” she said. “Come in. I will not run.” And in that house, the wolf found no fear to feed on. It howled, but it could not blow the house down. It burned for a while, then passed like a wind.

The third pig opened her door. And there, waiting outside, were her siblings, weeping and cold. She took them in—not to scold, but to shelter.
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And so they lived, not perfectly, but wisely. And the bricks held firm.

The Theology of the Third Pig
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I do not believe that safety lies in walls alone, nor that strength comes from winning, nor that life’s meaning is measured by success or pleasure. I build with brick not to keep the world out, but to hold something sacred in.

Each brick is a practice—laid with care, not fear. Love. Generosity. Simplicity. Service. These are not glamorous materials, nor quick to stack. They require time, patience, and trust in a deeper order that is not easily seen.

I believe in a God who is not the storm, but the stillness within it. Not the wolf, but the one who gives me courage to meet the wolf without hatred. I do not think God guarantees safety or ease. But I do believe God is present in the act of building rightly, even if the world shakes.

In this house of brick, I have learned that the wind comes for everyone. No one escapes it—not the joyful, not the diligent, not the wise. But some houses hold, not because they resist suffering, but because they make space for it, dignify it, and transform it into compassion.

When the wolf came to my door, I did not run. I did not fight. I opened the door, and said, “I know you.” The wolf howled, but could not enter, for there was nothing inside that could be devoured—no illusion to shatter, no trophy to seize, no mask to rip off. Only love, humility, and the quiet strength of one who lives for others.

But more than this, I see the world differently. My siblings each lived by a static view of life. The first saw the world as a pleasure garden—something to consume and enjoy. The second saw it as a ladder—something to climb and conquer. They both imagined life as a collection of things: moments to savor, trophies to gather, objects to possess or control.
But I have come to see the world as a web of unfolding relationships—a living process, not a finished product. Every moment is connected to the next, shaped by the choices we make in response to what has come before. Each act echoes forward. Each encounter invites a new possibility. Nothing is fixed. Everything is in becoming.

I do not live in a world of separate things. I live in a world of interwoven lives. Trees and winds, strangers and wolves, joys and losses—we are part of each other. The house I build is not just for me, but for the good of the whole. Its strength lies in its rootedness in the larger story—a story still being written, breath by breath, brick by brick.

God, in this view, is not the unmoved mover or distant judge, but the deep lure within each moment, calling us toward greater wholeness. A power not of force, but of invitation. Not coercive, but creative. Not above the world, but moving with it—always offering, never forcing. A companion in becoming.

This is my theology: that a life rooted in love is not immune to hardship, but it is impervious to despair. That to serve is not to be weak, but to build something the wolf cannot destroy. That God does not always shield us, but always joins us in the building. That reality is relational, and every small act of kindness helps shape the world that is still emerging.
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And that, in the end, it is better to shelter others than to shine alone.

Bricks as Loving Relationships 

It’s true: taken at face value, The Three Little Pigs can seem like a tale about building better defenses. Bricks = safety. Straw and sticks = failure. But in this reimagined version, the brick house is not a fortress of fear. It is a structure of meaning built on values that hold not because they repel hardship, but because they make us more capable of facing it together.

The brick house isn’t secure because it’s hard—it’s trustworthy because it’s honest, relational, and grounded in love. Its strength lies in how it was built: slowly, intentionally, with care for what really matters. The third pig does not hide from the wolf. She opens the door. The bricks aren't a wall against the world—they’re a form of rootedness in a process-relational worldview: one that sees reality as interconnected, evolving, and sacred in its vulnerability.

In this way, the story affirms that true resilience doesn’t come from resistance, but from relationship. Not from exclusion, but from a capacity to welcome the wolf—grief, change, crisis—without being undone.

The house of bricks, then, is not about the fantasy of invincibility. It’s about a way of life that can hold space for suffering, transform it with compassion, and still offer shelter to others when the storm passes through.

That’s not security in the conventional sense—it’s faithfulness, humility, and strength of soul. And in a world of wolves, that might be the best story we have to tell.