Wholeness in the Journey

The Tears of Things

The path of transformation is not about force or rigid discipline; it is about becoming open to change in ways we cannot fully predict or control. Many have been led to believe that personal growth is a matter of sheer willpower, that if we only work hard enough, pray deeply enough, or discipline ourselves strictly enough, we can mold ourselves into something better. But the truth is far more mysterious. Virtue is more like a chemical change in a petri dish than the well-considered lines of an engineer’s diagram. [1] It is not something we construct according to a blueprint, not something we master through sheer calculation. Instead, it unfolds as a living process, shaped by experience, by relationship, by time (Philippians 1:6). When we cling too tightly to self-improvement as a project of our own making, we risk blocking the very growth we seek. The work, then, is not about control, but about cultivating the conditions in which transformation can take place, trusting that something beyond our own effort is also at work within us (Romans 12:2).

There is an innate longing within every person that moves us toward wholeness, even if we do not always recognize or understand it. It is a pull toward something beyond ourselves, yet deeply within us. Some call it fulfillment, enlightenment, salvation, or awakening. But whatever name we give it, humans are driven toward an archetypal energy of wholeness, which most of us cannot define precisely. [1] We feel it in moments of longing, in the quiet restlessness that stirs within us when life feels incomplete, when something in us knows there is more (Ecclesiastes 3:11). It is not a desire we manufacture; it is a force already present, guiding us toward integration (Psalm 42:1-2). This movement toward wholeness is not about fixing ourselves or becoming something other than we are; it is about awakening to the deeper reality already present within us. The journey is not about striving but about recognizing the wholeness that is already seeking to emerge (Luke 17:21).

Too many people live as if spiritual fulfillment is a distant reality, something that can only be attained through great effort or reserved for the afterlife. They delay their sense of belonging, of peace, of divine connection, always believing it is just beyond their reach. But the truth is that all spiritual growth, on the other hand, somehow implies that heaven can accumulate in us, and we are already going there. [1] We are not waiting for transformation to happen at some future point; we are already in the midst of it (2 Corinthians 3:18). Heaven is not an external destination but something that gathers within us, something that takes root and grows in the depths of our being (Matthew 13:31-32). Our work is not to reach for something outside of ourselves but to recognize and nurture what is already present (Colossians 1:27). The divine is not elsewhere. It is here, unfolding in each moment, and we are called to wake up to its presence (John 14:23).

Yet this journey toward wholeness is rarely smooth or easy. We often imagine that growth should come without struggle, that peace is the absence of tension. But in reality, the opposite is true. Jung describes this movement toward wholeness as primarily energized and facilitated by conflicts of many different kinds. [1] It is in the friction of life, in the push and pull of opposing forces, that something new can emerge (James 1:2-4). Growth happens not despite difficulty, but through it. The tensions we experience—between who we have been and who we are becoming, between certainty and doubt, between control and surrender—are not obstacles to be eliminated. They are part of the very process that moves us forward (Romans 5:3-5). Wholeness is not about achieving a state of perfection, free from conflict. It is about learning to hold those tensions, to engage them deeply, and to let them transform us (2 Corinthians 4:17-18).

And yet, the human mind resists this reality. We are conditioned to think in binaries, to sort things into categories of good and bad, right and wrong, us and them. This dualistic way of thinking is deeply ingrained, but it is also deeply limiting. Our temptation is, of course, to choose one side and discount or eliminate the other one. [1] We want simplicity, clarity, certainty. We want to resolve contradictions quickly so that we do not have to sit with discomfort. But reality is rarely that simple (Isaiah 55:8-9). The world is not divided neatly into opposing forces; it is full of paradox, complexity, and nuance. When we insist on choosing sides, we fail to see the larger truth (1 Corinthians 13:12). Wisdom does not emerge from splitting the world into easy categories. It arises when we learn to hold multiple perspectives, when we open ourselves to a reality that is more intricate than we once imagined (Proverbs 4:7).

This refusal to collapse into easy answers is one of the greatest challenges of spiritual growth. We are impatient; we want resolution, clarity, closure. But true wisdom does not come from rushing to conclusions. To operate with this dualistic mind, you have to split your cognition in two—and thus reduce its power by half! [1] When we insist on seeing the world through an either/or lens, we diminish our ability to perceive fully (James 3:17). We cut ourselves off from deeper insight, from the creative possibilities that arise when we resist the urge to settle too quickly (Matthew 6:22-23). The work of spiritual development is to expand our capacity to hold tension, to bear uncertainty, to trust that understanding will come in its own time (Psalm 46:10). The mind becomes most powerful when it is not divided but open—when it does not grasp for immediate answers but allows itself to see the full complexity of reality (Romans 11:33).

And this is where love enters. Love is not about eliminating contradictions or resolving paradox. It is about learning to embrace them, to hold them with tenderness rather than resistance. If we can hold those paradoxes with a certain love, an even deeper love will show itself once you stop fighting it or denying its ubiquitous presence. [1] Love is not about controlling the world or making it fit our expectations. It is about surrendering to the mystery, about recognizing that wholeness is found not in certainty but in openness (1 John 4:7-8). When we stop resisting, when we stop demanding that life conform to our desires, we create space for something deeper to emerge (Romans 8:38-39). Love expands in the places where we cease to grasp, where we allow ourselves to be changed rather than trying to change everything around us (Colossians 3:14).

This willingness to surrender is essential for true transformation. We like to believe that we can master our own growth, that if we just try hard enough, we can shape ourselves into who we are meant to be. But this is an illusion. Don’t believe those who tell you that you can grow while staying in full control. It is a lie. [1] Real change does not happen when we are gripping tightly to our own plans. It happens when we let go, when we trust the process, when we allow ourselves to be led by something greater than our own ego (Matthew 16:25). The more we try to force transformation, the more we obstruct it. The deepest growth happens when we release our need for control and open ourselves to the unknown (Proverbs 3:5-6).

And in the end, the heart of this journey is not about perfection, but about learning to love what is. So often, we withhold our reverence, our respect, our forgiveness, believing that things must be flawless before they are worthy. But things do not have to be perfect for me to reverence them, respect them, honor them, love them, and forgive them. [1] Life is messy. We are imperfect. The world is full of brokenness. And yet, all of it is sacred (2 Corinthians 12:9-10). To love deeply is to embrace both the beauty and the imperfection, to recognize that wholeness does not mean the absence of flaws but the presence of deep acceptance (Romans 8:28). We are not called to fix everything. We are called to see the divine in all things, to honor the sacredness of what is, and to trust that even in our incompleteness, we are already whole (Philippians 4:7).

[1] Richard Rohr, The Tears of Things