Called to Love What the Church Refused
We are capable of astonishing compassion.
Even in the face of cruelty, confusion, and betrayal, our capacity to care for one another runs deeper than fear.
Somewhere inside you is a part that has never agreed to the violence done in the name of religion, to the harm inflicted on others for simply being who they are. This part of you has always known love is bigger than dogma, more trustworthy than systems, and more enduring than shame.
When we witness suffering—especially among those exiled for their truth—we are not meant to turn away. We are invited to become participants in healing. That begins by not numbing ourselves to the ache. It begins by choosing to love what has been broken, including ourselves.
It’s easy to feel torn between the clarity of love and the loudness of inherited beliefs. But in the silence beneath that noise, something more trustworthy speaks: the cry of the wounded, the courage of the outcast, the stillness of presence.
You are not here to carry the weight of every injustice alone. But you are here to remember what it means to be human in a way that lifts others with you. You’re here to stay tender enough to feel, brave enough to speak, and grounded enough to walk the long road of healing.
You’re not losing your way by grieving. You’re finding your path by refusing to harden.
There’s a pain that sets in when the place that once felt sacred becomes a source of rejection. When the very community that taught you about love seems incapable of offering it to people like you, it’s hard not to internalize that contradiction.
This experience is common. Too many people carry spiritual bruises from traditions that couldn’t embrace the fullness of their being. And yet, it speaks to something extraordinary about our humanity: our relentless desire to belong, to connect, to return to what is whole.
The longing to be seen is not weakness. It is a compass. It draws us toward places and people who are capable of loving without conditions.
It’s okay to outgrow spaces that no longer hold you. It’s okay to wrestle with your story and still trust in your dignity. You are not lost because you ask hard questions. You are alive, because you refuse to accept a version of love that demands your silence.
There is nothing wrong with you for needing healing. There is something right with you for still believing in it.
You are not alone. Others are walking this road—carrying grief, yes, but also glimpses of joy. We are learning to name what hurt us, release what doesn’t serve, and return again to the simple, sacred truth: our lives matter, and our voices are needed.
Stay with the longing. Let it lead you.
Deeper Reflection:
What does it mean to you to love with both conviction and tenderness in the face of injustice?
Heart of the Message:
A deep early experience of divine love cannot be reconciled with the harm caused by religious institutions without first confronting that harm—both publicly and inwardly—so that healing, justice, and transformation can emerge from a place of love rather than rage.
There is a cry that rises
not from hatred
but from the wound of having loved too much
and been cast aside.
There is a stillness after rage
where the broken kneel beside the broken
not to curse
but to cradle.
And in that holding,
something holy begins—
a quiet, persistent grace
that refuses to let go
even when it hurts to keep loving.