The Standard of Divine Love

You know, it changes everything when you realize that God’s nature is love, not wrath. Not in a sentimental way, but in a way that demands your whole life be shaped by it. The prophets—and Jesus—are the ones who have the courage to make God’s way of loving action the source, the goal, the criterion, and the standard for all human morality and behavior. [1] That sentence haunts me, because it calls into question nearly everything we’ve ever used to justify exclusion, fear, or punishment in the name of God. It means love isn’t just one attribute of God among many—it is the entire framework by which we must understand everything else. If our interpretations, our institutions, or even our spiritual practices don’t reflect that love, we’ve misunderstood the entire point. It’s not that love makes things easy—it makes them real. (1 John 4:8)

But to see that, we have to grow up. Spiritually, emotionally, theologically—we can’t stay in the same place forever. The Bible both demands that we grow up and allows our notions of God to grow up right along with it. [1] There’s something deeply liberating about that. So many people treat the sacred texts like they’re a frozen moment in time, but when you really look, there’s a deep current of evolution running through them. God, as revealed through those texts, changes—becomes more intimate, more just, more merciful. That alone should give us permission to let go of the rigid, damaging images of God we were handed as children. And if we don’t, we’ll end up worshiping a god made in the image of our unhealed wounds. (Jeremiah 31:31-34, Ezekiel 36:26-27)

This is precisely why we need prophets—not as fortune-tellers, but as truth-tellers. As those who won’t let us settle for a distorted image of the Divine or a complacent version of ourselves. Mature religion and good prophets make sure that this growth happens. [1] They call us out when we confuse holiness with conformity. They disturb the peace, not because they want chaos, but because they know that growth requires disruption. They refuse to let us domesticate God into a mirror of our own self-importance. They demand that we be changed—deeply and irrevocably—by love. (Isaiah 1:10-20)

But the problem is, we so rarely see things clearly. We confuse our perspective for reality. We humans do not see things as they are; we see things as we are… [1] That insight hits like a ton of bricks. It means that before we even begin to talk about God, we need to reckon with the filters we carry—our fears, our upbringing, our unconscious biases. We don’t just misunderstand God—we project onto God what we can’t face in ourselves. It’s painful to realize, but also freeing. Because once we begin to see this, we can begin to let go. We can start to ask different questions—more honest, more vulnerable, more spacious. (Matthew 7:3-5)

And this is where the prophet becomes more than just a social critic—they become a model of transformation. Prophets are the ones who have allowed the radical decentering of their own selves… [1] That kind of surrender is terrifying. To let go of control, of certainty, of ego. But it’s also the only way to be trustworthy in a spiritual sense. The prophet’s authority doesn’t come from status or charisma. It comes from the depth of their surrender. They’ve moved out of the way so that something greater can speak through them. That’s what makes their words pierce so deeply—they’re not speaking for themselves. (Isaiah 6:1-8)

And we’re not exempt. If we take the prophetic path seriously, we’re invited into the same kind of transformation. Like the prophets, we also must grow and change and move from dualistic anger to empathetic tears—and we must recognize that God has done the same. [1] That movement—from judgment to compassion, from separation to solidarity—isn’t just moral, it’s metaphysical. It changes the way we see everything. The path of spiritual maturity always moves toward empathy, always toward union, always toward love that weeps with those who suffer. Anything less is still stuck in a limited, egoic framework. (Luke 6:36-38, Matthew 5:44-45)

Because here’s the thing: we can’t use ourselves as the measure of what is good or true. Starting with the prophets and reaching its apex with Jesus, there is a clear message that humans cannot be the standard. [1] That line dismantles so many of our assumptions. It means that culture, politics, even religious institutions are not the final word. If we want to know what love looks like, we have to look beyond ourselves. We have to look at how the Divine actually behaves in history—how God acts, not how we want God to act. And that requires humility. Real humility. (Ephesians 5:1-2, Philippians 2:5-11)

It also requires depth. A spiritual life that isn’t shaped by depth and presence eventually becomes hollow. These are the characteristics of a full spiritual life. [1] We’re talking about something beyond external forms—beyond religious performance. A life that is full spiritually is one that is open, attentive, and responsive to the divine movement in all things. It listens more than it speaks. It stays close to suffering. It honors mystery. And it is always changing—never stagnant, never finished. (John 3:8, Romans 12:2)

Maybe that’s why so many people are walking away from institutional religion. But they’re not walking away from the sacred. It was the prophets who started the move from religion to spirituality that is becoming the norm in the West today. [1] That shift isn’t a rebellion—it’s a renewal. People want more than doctrines; they want transformation. They want to know that their longing is valid, that the sacred isn’t confined to a building or a creed. They want a way of life that feels honest, courageous, and connected. And that’s what the prophets offered. That’s what Jesus embodied. That’s what we’re being invited into now. (Mark 2:22, Matthew 11:28-30)

[1] Richard Rohr, The Tears of Things