There is a quiet grief I carry as a deacon.
It is the grief of meeting beautiful souls—deeply thoughtful, deeply compassionate, spiritually awake people—who still whisper, “I love God… but I do not know where I belong.”
Some have been wounded by churches.
Some have been rejected by family.
Some have been made to feel that their questions were dangerous, their wounds were shameful, or their very existence was somehow too complicated for God.
And yet beneath all of that pain remains a holy hunger:
A longing for peace.
A longing for truth.
A longing for healing.
A longing to be received without pretense.
A longing to know whether divine love is actually as wide as Jesus Christ seemed to reveal it to be.
I believe it is.
I believe the heart of Christ is larger than we imagine.
Not looser.
Not indifferent.
Not shallow.
But wider.
Deeper.
Warmer.
More patient.
More merciful.
For Christ did not move through the world building walls around purity—He moved through the world breaking open doors.
He touched lepers.
He ate with sinners.
He defended the condemned.
He welcomed the outsider.
He restored those society named unclean.
He spoke peace into frightened hearts.
“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you… Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.” — Gospel of John 14:27
That peace was not reserved for the spiritually elite.
It was given freely—to fishermen, doubters, zealots, tax collectors, women dismissed by society, foreigners, the sick, the poor, and those whose lives had become tangled in sorrow and shame.
This is the scandal and beauty of the Gospel:
Love comes first.
Not as approval of everything we do.
Not as sentimentality.
But as the deep recognition that every human soul bears the image of God and is worthy of reverence, compassion, and care.
The Christian life, in its deepest form, is not about becoming harsher, colder, or more suspicious of others.
It is about becoming luminous with mercy.
Christ Himself said:
“I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.” — Gospel of Matthew 9:13
And elsewhere:
“Neither do I condemn you; go, and sin no more.” — Gospel of John 8:11
Notice the order.
He meets the wounded person first with dignity.
He restores personhood before anything else.
He speaks truth—but never without tenderness.
He offers transformation—but never humiliation.
The holy pattern of Christ is clear:
No soul is healed by hatred.
No heart is opened by contempt.
No life is transformed by rejection.
Healing begins where fear ends.
Healing begins where honesty is welcomed.
Healing begins where someone can finally exhale and say:
“Here, at last, I do not need to hide.”
As I grow into my diaconate, this is becoming clearer to me:
My calling is not to stand above people as a judge of souls.
My calling is to stand among them—as servant, witness, listener, companion, and bearer of Christ’s peace.
To bless.
To pray.
To listen deeply.
To speak gently.
To love courageously.
To make room.
To remind weary hearts that God is nearer than breath and kinder than we dare believe.
For Christ says:
“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” — Gospel of Matthew 11:28
Not:
Come to me once you are perfect.
Not:
Come to me once you have cleaned yourself up.
Not:
Come to me once you fit the mold.
Simply:
Come.
This is the wideness of divine mercy.
This is the spaciousness of love.
This is the open door of Christ.
And perhaps this is the invitation before us:
To become people of deep peace.
People of radical welcome.
People of radical honesty.
People of radical compassion.
People whose presence feels like shelter.
People whose love reflects heaven.
Not because truth matters less—
—but because love is the deepest truth of all.
And wherever love is truly present, Christ is already there, waiting at the table, making room for one more.