This morning, Pastor Thomas preached a message that landed deep in my spirit: Kindness is not the same as niceness. And maybe that’s something we all need to sit with a little longer.

Niceness is often a mask—polite smiles, agreeable nods, quiet avoidance of anything uncomfortable. It keeps the waters smooth and the optics clean. But kindness? Kindness has grit. Kindness is gentle and grounded. It is compassion with conviction, gentleness with a spine, and truth wrapped in mercy.

In our culture, niceness can be self-protective. We play it safe. We avoid offense. We nod when we want to speak up and smile when we want to cry. But biblical kindness doesn’t play safe. It doesn’t look away from suffering, ignore injustice, or shrink back from truth.

Kindness is how love puts on work boots.

It sees the need and moves toward it. It speaks truth—but not to win an argument or prove a point. It speaks truth because love refuses to leave someone in darkness. Kindness doesn’t flatter; it cares. It doesn’t just feel compassion; it shows compassion—through presence, support, and action.

Jesus was the embodiment of this kind of kindness. Think about how He treated people:

• The woman at the well—He named her shame without shaming her. He spoke truth, but with such tenderness that she ran to tell others about the Man who saw her and loved her (John 4).
• The woman caught in adultery—He stooped low, protected her from harm, and offered grace alongside an invitation to live differently (John 8).
• The leper—He didn’t just heal him. He touched him. He crossed the lines that society had drawn and made space for dignity (Matthew 8).

Over and over, Jesus showed us that kindness is the practical expression of God’s love. It is not passive. It is not performative. It’s fiercely present, honest, and merciful.

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness…”
— Galatians 5:22

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”
— Ephesians 4:32

We often think of kindness as something soft. But in Scripture, kindness is powerful. It leads to transformation. Paul writes that “God’s kindness is meant to lead you to repentance.” (Romans 2:4) Kindness changes us. It calls us home.

Real kindness doesn’t hide when someone is struggling. It doesn’t turn away from pain, even when the pain is messy or unfamiliar. It notices. It moves. It bends low to bind wounds, to make space, to speak words that heal.

And that means kindness often costs us something.

It may cost our comfort, our convenience, or our carefully curated boundaries. It may cost our image—because sometimes kindness looks like taking a stand when others want to stay silent. Or slowing down to offer presence when everyone else is rushing by.

But kindness isn’t rooted in people-pleasing. It’s rooted in love.

Love that sees.
Love that acts.
Love that does not give up.

Kindness is not optional for the follower of Christ. It is part of the fruit of the Spirit, evidence that the Spirit is alive in us. And in a world full of harshness, division, and hurry—our kindness can be a radical act of faith.

So today, let’s ask ourselves:
Where is God inviting me to trade niceness for kindness?
Who needs my presence, not just my politeness?
Where can I show up with compassion and clarity?

Let’s not just talk about love. Let’s let it take on flesh.

Kindness is love in motion.

So bring a meal. Speak a hard truth with tenderness. Write the note. Hold the hand. Make room for someone’s grief. Ask the deeper question. Listen without fixing. Say what needs to be said—but say it with mercy.

Because the world doesn’t need more agreeable Christians.
It needs kind ones—people who carry the heart of Jesus into every room they enter.

We live in a world where lines are drawn quickly: between us and them, worthy and unworthy, right and wrong, visible and invisible. It’s easy to forget, in the tide of division and disagreement, that every person we encounter carries the image of God.

It’s not just theology. It’s truth. From the mother holding her baby in the shelter line to the neighbor who gets on your last nerve; from the outspoken activist to the quiet man bagging your groceries; each one is fashioned by divine hands, loved beyond measure, and called by name.

Jesus never encountered someone and failed to see their value.

The leper — touched.
The Samaritan woman — heard.
The tax collector — called.
The woman caught in adultery — protected.
The thief on the cross — welcomed.

Not once did Jesus say, “You don’t count.”

Instead, He shattered social norms and religious walls to restore dignity where it had been stripped. His ministry was not just about truth. It was about truth delivered in love, in eye contact, in compassion, in presence.

As followers of Christ, our lives are not meant to be measuring sticks of worthiness, but mirrors of mercy.

Dignity isn’t something someone earns by meeting our expectations. It’s something we acknowledge because God already placed it there.

You may disagree with someone’s choices.
You may struggle to understand their culture, politics, lifestyle, or even their tone.
But disagreement is never license for dehumanization.

Ephesians 4:2 reminds us:

“Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.”

We bear with one another because love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a posture. It bows low, listens deeply, and chooses compassion even when it’s hard.

How we treat those with no power over us says everything about who we are in Christ.

Do we talk over the quiet ones?
Dismiss the elderly?
Mock those struggling?
Ignore the poor?
Hold grudges against those who’ve hurt us?

Or do we lean in with the grace we ourselves have received?

When we live as if every person matters, we become a living gospel. We reflect a Kingdom where the first are last and the unseen are seen.

Let’s be the people who pause before speaking harshly.
Who remember the barista’s name.
Who speak gently to the child acting out.
Who listen without correcting every flaw.
Who choose empathy over superiority.

Because when we do, we are doing something sacred.

We are joining Jesus in lifting the heads of the weary.
We are telling the world: “You matter, not because of what you do; but because of whose you are.”

There is a quiet ache that echoes through human history: the ache of not belonging.

From ancient tribal divisions to modern-day polarization, we’ve become skilled at drawing invisible lines – us vs. them, right vs. wrong, worthy vs. unworthy. This act of distancing others, of placing them outside the circle of grace we reserve for “our kind,” has a name: othering.

But the gospel tells a different story.

Made in His Image

Genesis 1:27 reminds us that every person, regardless of nationality, race, gender, background, belief, or behavior, is made in the image of God. The imago Dei is not selectively bestowed. It is intrinsic. Sacred. Undeniable.

To “other” someone, then, is not just a social act; it is a spiritual rupture. It is to deny the divine fingerprint in another. It is to forget that Christ did not die for a chosen few, but for all (John 3:16, Romans 5:8).

When we diminish another’s dignity, we forget who God is. And we forget who we are.

Jesus and the Other

Jesus had every right to remain distant. Holy. Separate.

But He didn’t.

He touched lepers (Mark 1:40-42). He broke social codes to speak with a Samaritan woman (John 4). He dined with sinners, elevated women, honored children, and healed Roman enemies. Again and again, He crossed the boundaries that others had drawn, cultural, religious, ethnic, moral, and said, “This one belongs. This one matters. This one is Mine.”

If Jesus was comfortable with proximity to the other, why aren’t we?

Why We Other

Othering often begins in fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of losing control. Fear of being wrong, displaced, or uncomfortable. Sometimes it’s inherited from our culture or upbringing. Other times, it grows out of wounds we haven’t healed.

But fear is never a fruit of the Spirit. Love is. And love casts out fear (1 John 4:18).

It’s far easier to dehumanize than to sit in the discomfort of difference. But Jesus didn’t call us to easy. He called us to love.

Rehumanizing the World

What if the Church became known not for who it kept out, but for how far it would go to bring others in?

What if we stopped asking, “Are they one of us?” and instead asked, “How can I love them well?”

To rehumanize someone is to see them as Christ sees them. Not as a label, not as a statistic, not as a problem but as beloved.

This doesn’t mean we excuse harm or abandon discernment. Boundaries are biblical. But even boundaries can be held with compassion instead of contempt. Even disagreement can happen with dignity.

A Kingdom Without Lines

The kingdom of God is not tribal. It is table-shaped. And that table has room for tax collectors, doubters, immigrants, addicts, scholars, skeptics, and saints. It has room for you. It has room for me.

At the cross, Jesus didn’t just erase the dividing wall between us and God (Ephesians 2:14)—He also destroyed the wall between us and each other. Every “them” we’ve created, He died to redeem.

So let us be bridge-builders. Let us become a people who refuse to “other” those whom God has called beloved.

And when we’re tempted to draw lines, may we remember: Jesus came to erase them.

We don’t like to talk about ruins.

We like stories of victory — the healing, the breakthrough, the miracle. We want the dust to settle and the sun to rise. But what about when the walls are still crumbled, when the prayers haven’t been answered, and all you can see is what was lost?

There are times in life when everything we trusted is torn down — by grief, betrayal, war, trauma, illness, injustice. The ground gives way beneath our feet and nothing feels safe. We wonder where God is, and if He even sees us here.

But friend, the story of our faith has never been one of perfect people with tidy lives. It is the story of a God who enters into the rubble.

God walked with Adam and Eve after the fall, clothed them, and called them still.
He came to Hagar in the wilderness and said, “I see you.”
He wept with Mary at Lazarus’s tomb.
He was born into a poor family under Roman oppression.
He hung on a cross between criminals, stripped and mocked, misunderstood to His last breath.

And even after resurrection, Jesus still bore the scars.

This is the mystery of our faith: we are not alone in the ruins.

We are not forsaken in our loss, in our trauma, or in our aching questions. God is still Emmanuel — God with us. Not just in church pews or mountaintops, but in hospital rooms, in shelters, in bedrooms where grief sits like an uninvited guest. In cities torn by war. In hearts torn by silence.

The presence of God does not always look like resolution.
Sometimes, it looks like someone sitting in the ash heap with you.
Sometimes, it looks like breath in your lungs when you thought you couldn’t survive the night.
Sometimes, it looks like the smallest flicker of hope — enough to get you through the next five minutes.

And that, too, is holy.

You don’t have to rise quickly.
You don’t have to rebuild right now.
You don’t have to make meaning out of what broke you.

But let this settle into your bones: God is still in the ruins.

And He is not in a hurry.

He will sit with you until you are ready. He will hold your tears, honor your pain, and whisper life into what feels like death. And somehow, some way, the story isn’t over yet.

I’ve been sitting with a line from Pastor Thomas’s sermon all week.
“It is not to us to condemn—but we were given the ministry of reconciliation.”

That one sentence has turned over and over in my heart, sifting the ways I’ve looked at people, spoken about people, distanced myself from people. It’s brought me back to something so central, so deeply rooted in the heart of God, that it should shape every part of how we live:
Every human being is an image bearer of God.

Every single one.
The neighbor who waves kindly from across the street.
The stranger who cuts us off in traffic.
The friend who fails us.
The person whose lifestyle, politics, theology, or choices feel far from our own.
The hurting. The hardened. The hopeful. The hardened.

Image bearers.

Not one of us is more made in God’s image than another. That’s not how this works. And yet… how quickly we forget. How quickly we divide and other and judge.

But here’s the thing—Scripture is crystal clear on the posture we’re called to carry:

“He has committed to us the message of reconciliation. We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors…” (2 Corinthians 5:19–20)

Not ambassadors of condemnation. Not gatekeepers of who is “in” and who is “out.”
Ambassadors of reconciliation. Bearers of a message that restores and heals and mends.
That message is love.

Jesus summed up the entirety of the law and the prophets with two commands:

Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and mind.
And love your neighbor as yourself. (Matthew 22:37–40)

Not “love those who vote like you.”
Not “love those who are easy to get along with.”
Not “love those who follow the rules you think matter most.”
Just…
Love.

Love God. Love people.
Period.

I’m reminded that Jesus, who had every right to judge, chose instead to draw near.
To touch the leper.
To eat with sinners.
To welcome the outcast.
To forgive the ones who betrayed and denied and crucified Him.

If He did not come into the world to condemn it (John 3:17), then how dare we take up that mantle?
We weren’t called to condemnation.
We were called to compassion.
To truth wrapped in grace.
To courage that lays down pride for presence.

So here’s the invitation I’m holding today, and maybe you are too:
To see every person—every person—as an image bearer of the Most High God.
To lay down the need to be right, and pick up the call to be reconcilers.
To love when it’s easy, and especially when it’s not.
Because the love of Christ compels us.

And maybe, just maybe, when we lead with love, we make room for the kind of transformation that only God can bring.

In a world aching under the weight of injustice, oppression, and inequity, it is right and holy to rise up in defense of those who are silenced, mistreated, and marginalized. Scripture calls us to “do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God” (Micah 6:8). Jesus Himself overturned tables, confronted religious hypocrisy, and consistently stood with the least of these.

But there is a caution here, too—a sobering reminder we cannot afford to ignore: In our zeal to stand for justice, we must not lose sight of love.

Because if we’re not careful, we can become what we oppose.

We can become so consumed with proving a point that we forget to love people.

We can become so devoted to calling out injustice that we begin to see others only as enemies, not image-bearers.

We can begin to divide, to label, to dehumanize—thinking we’re fighting the good fight, when in fact, we’re slowly trading in compassion for contempt.

This is not the way of Christ.

Jesus never compromised truth—but He also never lost sight of love. He corrected, but He never canceled. He called people to repentance, but He looked them in the eye while doing it. He flipped tables in the temple, but He wept over the city.

His battle was always against the systems that crushed souls—not the souls themselves.

We are living in a time when outrage is easy. And when the cause feels righteous, it’s tempting to justify cruelty in the name of conviction. But the fruit of the Spirit has not changed: “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control” (Galatians 5:22–23). These are not signs of weakness. They are signs of Christlikeness.

So how do we stand firm without hardening our hearts?

How do we fight injustice without becoming unjust?

We begin with humility. We examine our own motivations. We remember that the call to love our enemies wasn’t a suggestion—it was a command (Matthew 5:44). And we resist the urge to “other” people, even as we resist the systems that harm them.

Because if our fight for justice leads us to hate, to mock, or to devalue, we are no longer aligned with the Gospel.

We must hold truth and love together—tenaciously, courageously, unwaveringly.

Justice without love becomes vengeance.

Love without justice becomes sentimentality.

But justice with love? That changes the world.

So let us not become like those who sow division. Let us be known by our love. Not a passive, permissive love—but a fierce, holy, truth-filled love that restores dignity, challenges evil, and sees the image of God in every human being.

Even the ones who don’t see it in us.

Even the ones we struggle to love.

Even when it’s hard.

Especially when it’s hard.

Because that’s when the light shines brightest.

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

There is no shortage of noise in our world today—loud voices, sharp rhetoric, and endless opinions demanding our allegiance. But for those of us who follow Christ, there is a clear and timeless instruction from Jesus Himself: we are to be known by our love. Not by our arguments, our positions, or our affiliations—but by how we love.

Love is not passive agreement or blind tolerance. It is fierce in its protection of dignity. It is honest, humble, and sometimes costly. Love reflects the heart of Christ, who did not draw dividing lines between those worthy and unworthy of care, but moved toward the hurting, the marginalized, and the misrepresented. He didn’t posture for power; He knelt to wash feet.

So it is right—and wise—to pause and examine where we place our loyalty. If an individual, a church, a political figure, or an organization makes its name by spreading hate, fostering division, or belittling any image bearer of God, then we must ask: Is this the way of Jesus?

Scripture teaches that every person bears the image of God (Genesis 1:27). That alone demands respect. And yet, in the name of religion, people are often degraded rather than dignified. We are watching this unfold in real time across our culture—where fear is cloaked as faith, and cruelty masquerades as conviction.

But love cannot be divorced from truth. And the truth is, if our beliefs lead us to despise, dismiss, or dehumanize, we are no longer walking in the way of Christ.

It is not unfaithful to question. In fact, it may be the most faithful thing we can do.
To ask:
– Does this align with the character of Jesus?
– Would the fruit of this be love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control?
– Or is it bearing fruit of pride, rage, fear, and contempt?

Love is how we will be recognized. It’s the evidence of Christ alive in us. So let us be people who love bravely. Who speak truthfully. Who do not flinch from accountability, nor shrink back from mercy.

And when we see hate disguised as holiness—may we be discerning enough to step back. May we have the courage to walk away. And may we never forget that our first and lasting call is not to a party or personality, but to a Person—Jesus Christ, whose love made the broken whole and called us all His own.

There’s a pattern that repeats itself across centuries and continents: when women are devalued, societies begin to crumble from within.

Scripture tells us plainly that both men and women are made in the image of God (Genesis 1:27). Not just reflections of God’s creativity, but bearers of His likeness—equal in dignity, purpose, and worth. And yet, time and again, human systems warp that sacred truth. We forget. We ignore. We institutionalize inequality. And we all suffer for it.

When women are not seen as co-heirs with Christ (Romans 8:17), when their voices are silenced, their gifts overlooked, and their safety dismissed, we create gaps in the fabric of our communities that cannot be mended by power or policy alone. The wounds go deeper. They ripple outward.

One tragic and often overlooked example is what happens in places where women are severely devalued—where their presence is hidden, their rights are stripped, and their humanity dismissed. In some areas of Afghanistan, for instance, young boys are subjected to horrific abuse under the practice of bacha bazi—a form of exploitation that flourishes in part because women are considered too “impure” or “less than” to form relational intimacy or partnership. Where women are dishonored, everyone becomes more vulnerable to harm, especially the smallest and most voiceless among us.

This isn’t just a cultural issue. It’s a theological one.

The way a society treats women reveals its view of God.

It tells us whether we believe that “there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for we are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). It shows whether our faith is performative or transformative. Whether we’re only interested in preserving power or actually pursuing the kingdom of God—which has always lifted the lowly, dignified the disregarded, and honored the overlooked.

So we must ask ourselves:

• Are we protecting women—not just from physical harm, but from erasure?
• Are we creating opportunities for women to lead, teach, speak, and serve?
• Are we making room for the voices and stories of women in our pulpits, boardrooms, and homes?
• Are we honoring their full humanity with the same vigor we use to defend doctrine?

Jesus did. Again and again, He broke social norms to elevate women—speaking with them publicly, healing them tenderly, receiving their ministry, defending their worth. He invited them into the story, not as side characters, but as central witnesses to resurrection, redemption, and the radical new kingdom He was ushering in.

If we want to measure the godliness of a nation, a church, or a home, let’s not just look at how much Scripture is quoted or how loud the worship music plays.

Let’s look at how women are treated.

Because the holiness of a people is most often revealed in how they care for those who are smaller, softer, or historically cast aside—not just women, but children, the elderly, the poor, the disabled, the marginalized.

May we be the kind of believers who don’t just nod along to justice and equality, but embody it. May we be bold enough to reflect the image of a Savior who chose the path of humility, lifted the ones the world dismissed, and called all of us—male and female—His own.