Lately, it seems the air is thick with suspicion. The headlines, the conversations at gas stations, the whispers in pews and the shouting in comment sections—so much of it is steeped in fear, in “us” versus “them,” in a kind of cold certainty that forgets the imago Dei in each face.

I find myself grieving.

Grieving the ways we have othered each other.

Grieving the ways God’s name is used like a weapon instead of a refuge.

Grieving the steady drumbeat of dehumanization that masquerades as conviction.

We are naming enemies where there are neighbors. We are calling strangers dangerous before we’ve ever shared a meal or heard their story. We are painting entire people groups with broad, fearful strokes and then calling it holy.

But it isn’t holy.
It isn’t even human.

When we strip someone of their dignity because of where they were born, who they love, the color of their skin, the questions they carry, the clothes they wear, the God they pray to (or don’t), we are not being faithful. We are being forgetful.

We have forgotten the way Jesus knelt—not stood tall—beside the hurting.
We have forgotten how He touched the unclean, dined with the scandalous, defended the accused, wept with the grieving, and silenced the mob.

We have forgotten the tenderness that scandalized the religious elite.
We have forgotten that the distinguishing mark of His followers is not correct doctrine, sharp arguments, or moral superiority.

It’s love.
“By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” — John 13:35

Not love in theory.
Not love in the abstract.
Not love only for those who look like us, think like us, worship like us.

But a love that crosses borders.
A love that pauses to listen.
A love that disarms instead of dominates.
A love that says, “I see God’s fingerprint on your life, even if I don’t understand your path.”

And yet here we are, in a time when suspicion is baptized and hate is dressed in church clothes. We hear that defending “truth” justifies cruelty, that purity demands exclusion, that God needs our outrage more than our compassion.

No.
That is not the Gospel.

The Gospel is the good news that God moved toward us in our brokenness.
And now we are to move toward others in theirs.

This kind of love does not mean the absence of boundaries or the approval of harm. But it does mean we resist the easy narratives that flatten people into caricatures. It means we tell the truth, yes—but with tears in our eyes, not venom in our voice.

It means when we speak of judgment, it is not with glee.
It is not with gloating.
It is not with gnarled fingers pointing outward, but with trembling hands open in repentance.

Because all of us—all of us—have fallen short.

And still, grace runs toward us like the father of the prodigal.
Still, mercy makes room at the table.
Still, we are being shaped by a God whose justice always partners with compassion.

So today, I pray we soften.
That we listen more than we speak.
That we lean in instead of turning away.

And that the world might begin to recognize us again—
not by the sharpness of our opinions,
not by the people we fear,
not by the lines we draw—
but by the unmistakable, tender, audacious love that looks like Jesus.