When did we stop believing that words matter?

I found myself asking that question this week.

Scrolling through news articles, skimming human interest stories, glancing at headlines and comments and conversations online—I realized something that quietly unsettled me:
Words that were once considered vulgar, cruel, or even abusive have now been normalized. They’ve taken up permanent residence in our cultural vocabulary.
And it’s not just the words themselves—it’s the attitude behind them.

In our attempt to appear sophisticated or edgy, we’ve reached for the lowest common denominator. In doing so, we’ve lost something vital.
Respect.
Reverence.
And perhaps most heartbreakingly—love.
For our world.
For others.
And for ourselves.

We’ve traded sacredness for sarcasm.
Meaning for mockery.
We’ve become a culture that numbs itself through screens and noise, feeding on a constant diet of distraction—and we wonder why we feel hollow.

We’ve mistaken cynicism for intellect and cruelty for power.
And it’s all left us… feeling anything but powerful.

As a counselor, this hits close.
It’s not just something I see—it’s something I feel.
This disconnection, this cultural erosion, is personal. It shows up in the language we use, in the way we speak to ourselves and others, in the environments we create and call “normal.”

Words carry weight.
And when the words we use are laced with sarcasm, hostility, and disregard, we create spaces where love cannot flourish.

Many of the expressions we casually toss around today would’ve once been labeled abusive, sexually harassing, or discriminatory. They would’ve been considered verbal assault. And yet now, we call it “just being real” or “telling it like it is.”

But love—real love—has never been reckless with words.
And it never will be.

People who truly love us are called to create spaces of safety and honor, not harm and hostility. If our environments are marked by toxic language and degrading tones, they cannot be safe. Not emotionally. Not spiritually. Not relationally.

Yes, I’ve heard the defenses—“I’m just blowing off steam,” “I need to express myself,” “This is how I stand up for myself.” But when our expression becomes oppression, when our catharsis becomes someone else’s pain—something has gone wrong.

This mindset reveals something deeper:
A preoccupation with self.
A desire to be heard over a desire to heal.
A belief that our feelings matter more than someone else’s dignity.

We’ve created a culture that celebrates temper tantrums and rewards entitlement.
We perform for invisible audiences, starring in our own reality shows, demanding love and respect—yet feeling none of it.
We’ve become more concerned with asserting ourselves than becoming ourselves.

Paul warned us of times like these.

“There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves… abusive, disobedient… ungrateful, unholy… without love… slanderous…” (2 Timothy 3)

And we wonder why we feel unseen, unloved, unsafe.

But there is another way.

The way of love.

Love is patient. Love is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered.
It keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. (1 Corinthians 13)

Love is bold—but never brutal.
It doesn’t excuse evil; it confronts it with grace and truth.
It is a force strong enough to silence darkness, not through louder shouting—but through stronger empathy.

Bold love disarms evil through generosity.
Tender love surprises hardness with kindness.

Love doesn’t lash out—it lifts up.
It guards its tongue.
It chooses its words like they matter—because they do.

God’s love is both fierce and tender.
Holy and healing.
Strength that disciplines.
Grace that restores.
And if we are to reflect Him, our love must be the same.

So we ask ourselves today:

Am I strong enough to guard my tongue?
Am I tender enough to bless even those who’ve hurt me?
Am I willing to speak life instead of noise?

Because the words we speak—especially in the ordinary, unscripted moments—reveal the kind of love we carry.

What kind of atmosphere am I creating?
What kind of environment am I cultivating in my home, my relationships, my community?

One filled with performance and pretense?
Or one where love is real—felt, seen, and safe?

Words build worlds.
We can curse or we can bless.

Today, which will it be?