When Shame Meets Compassion

Shame is a deeply human emotion. It often creeps in quietly—through a tightness in the chest, a flushed face, or the inner whisper, “You’re not good enough.” Though painful, shame isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a signal that we long to be accepted and to belong. Understanding how we respond to shame can help us move from self-condemnation toward healing and compassion.

Psychologist Hahn, drawing from Nathanson, identified four common reactions people have to shame.

1. Withdrawal – Hiding from View
When shame strikes, we might retreat into silence, avoid eye contact, or seem distracted. Withdrawal protects us from further embarrassment but can also cut us off from the support and empathy we need most.

2. Avoidance – Shifting Attention
We may cope by changing the subject, making light of our mistakes, or pretending everything is fine. Avoidance brings temporary relief but blocks the honesty needed for growth.

3. Attack on Others – Defending the Ego
Sometimes, we turn our discomfort outward by criticizing or dismissing others. This defensive move shields our fragile sense of worth, but it distances us from genuine connection.

4. Attack on Self – Turning Inward
Many of us internalize shame through harsh self-criticism—“I can’t do anything right.” This “pre-emptive strike” aims to protect us from outside judgment but often deepens our pain and isolation.

Recognizing these reactions allows us to pause and respond differently. Instead of running from shame, we can meet it with curiosity and compassion. Spiritual writer Henri Nouwen offers a profound insight: “Shame is the most interior form of human brokenness. Yet, when brought into the light of God’s love, it becomes the place where grace is born.” When we allow love—divine or human—to touch the parts we most want to hide, shame loses its grip. Healing begins not in perfection but in the gentle embrace of truth, reminding us that even in our vulnerability, we remain deeply worthy of love and belonging. 

“When shame is met with compassion, grace and healing can emerge.”

 

Notes

Hahn, W. K. (2002). The experience of shame in psychotherapy supervision. Psychotherapy, 38(3), 272–284. 

Nathanson, D. L. (1992). Shame and pride: Affect, sex, and the birth of the self. Norton.

Nouwen, H. J. M. (1992). Life of the beloved: Spiritual living in a secular world. Crossroad.

 

All Creation Is Family: St. Francis’ Vision for a Divided World

Nearly eight centuries ago, St. Francis of Assisi lived 44 years, yet his spirit continues to inspire the world today. What makes St. Francis and his spirituality so transformative?

He saw creation as sacred, a place where God’s presence is alive. He called the sun his brother, the moon his sister — all creation was his family. Because everything is born of God, it was worthy of respect and reverence. This perspective goes far beyond environmental slogans about protecting the earth for survival; it invites a profound awareness of our place in the universe. As St. Paul wrote, “In him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28). This truth reminds us that God’s presence is not distant but intimately woven into every part of creation, calling us to recognize the sacred in all things.

St. Francis’ spirituality also enables us to see other human beings as sacred, bearing the indestructible divine image. When we see others in this way, we can connect with them with deep reverence and love — calling them our brothers and sisters. Today, the world seems more divided than ever, with superficial differences like religion, language, color, status, or wealth separating us. Beneath these differences lies one truth: we all come from God, carry God within, and will one day return to God.

Recognizing the sacred in everyone and everything can transform how we relate to the world. Only by seeing creation as family can we counter division, suspicion, and hostility. St. Francis’ vision challenges us: can we dare to see the sacred in all things?

“Seeing the sacred in everything can heal a divided world.”

The Illusion of Controlling God

Prayer, rituals, and other spiritual practices are woven into the lives of many people. Often, we approach them with petitions—asking for healing, protection, or blessings. It is natural to bring our needs before God. Yet when prayer becomes only about persuading God to act according to our wishes, we fall into an illusion: the illusion that we can somehow control God.

Spiritual writer Richard Rohr warns of this danger. He writes, “You might love the rituals, but you don’t think that doing the rituals correctly, following the behavior perfectly somehow changes the mind of God. God likes you before you do the rituals. God doesn’t need them, but we need them to tenderly express our childlike devotion and desire—and to get in touch with that desire.”

True prayer is not about forcing God’s hand. It is about allowing our hearts and minds to be opened and reshaped by God’s presence. Scripture reminds us: “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect” (Romans 12:2).

In this light, prayer is less about getting God to do what we want, and more about letting God reveal what we truly need. It clears away unnecessary desires, sharpens our focus, and helps us see life through God’s eyes. Prayer is not so much about getting favors from God but more about becoming who we need to.

The gift of prayer is not in changing God, but in being changed by God. When we let go of the illusion of control, we step into freedom—the freedom to live with trust, clarity, and love.

   Prayer is not about changing God’s mind, but about allowing God to change ours.         

Notes

Rohr, R. (2003). Everything belongs: The gift of contemplative prayer (p. 67-68) [Kindle]. A Crossroad Publishing Company.

The Healing Face of Salvation

What is salvation? What does it really look like? Over centuries, people and theologies have offered many answers. For some, salvation means entering heaven after death. For others, it is resting in eternal peace. Still others see it as redemption from personal struggles or sinfulness. None of these are wrong, but on their own, they may not reveal the full depth of salvation.

The word salvation comes from the Latin salus, meaning healing. That shifts the question: if salvation is healing, then what is being healed?

Richard Rohr, a Franciscan teacher of contemplation, deepens this insight by connecting salvation with forgiveness. He writes, “Salvation often feels like a kind of universal amnesty, a total forgiveness of ourselves and all things.” In this light, salvation, forgiveness, and healing are inseparable. To experience salvation is to encounter a God who forgives us completely and accepts us without reserve. That radical forgiveness awakens us to acceptance—of ourselves, of others, of life as it is.

When we rest in such unconditional forgiveness, something extraordinary happens: healing begins. Our wounds and the wounds of others no longer remain barriers; they become places where grace breaks through. Old hurts take on new meaning. Difficult stories are reframed in the light of compassion. Slowly, we begin to see that everything belongs. Nothing is left outside the circle of love.

This vision of salvation is not locked in dogma or postponed until after death. It is not just a promise for tomorrow—it is an invitation for today. Salvation is a living process, meant to be received and practiced in the here and now. To let ourselves be forgiven, accepted, and healed by God is to enter into salvation. And once we do, we cannot help but extend that same forgiveness and healing outward.

True salvation is not about waiting—it is about living. To live salvation is to become a channel of healing: for ourselves, for others, and for the world around us.

Notes

Rohr, R. (2003). Everything belongs: The gift of contemplative prayer (p. 65). A Crossroad Publishing Company.

The Story of “Love”

These days it is easy to divide people based on religion, language, race, or culture. Suspicion, coldness, and even violence often replace compassion and connection. In such times, it is worth remembering that we are deeply interconnected. Even our words carry this truth. Take the word love, for example—a word spoken in daily life across the world, even in places where English is not the dominant language. Its history shows how deeply cultures have always been connected.

The English love has roots stretching back thousands of years. In Old English (8th century), it appeared as lufu, drawn from Proto-Germanic lubo. Further back, it comes from the Proto-Indo-European root leubh- (2000–3000 BC), meaning “to care, to desire, to love.” From this single root, the word branched into many languages across cultures and centuries:

• Sanskrit (2000–1500 BC): lubhyati — to desire
• Greek (8th century BC): leibein — to care or to hold dear
• Latin (7th century BC onward): lubet/libet — it pleases; later amor — love
• Gothic (4th century AD): lubō — affection
• Old High German (6th century AD): luba — love or joy
• Old Norse (8th century AD): lof — praise, affection
• Old French (9th century AD): amour — passion, affection

Each culture added a layer of meaning, shaping the word as it traveled across time and place. What we say today as love is not the creation of one people alone, but the fruit of many.

Seen in this light, love is more than an emotion or a concept—it is a shared inheritance. Its history tells us that just as words are shaped by many tongues, so too are we shaped by countless lives, exchanges, and connections.

In a world of division, the story of love reminds us that we belong to one another. Love—both in essence and in language—has always been the thread that binds humanity together.

 

Quest for the Magical Mustard Seed

Harold Kushner shares an old Chinese tale about a woman whose only son had died. In her grief, she went to a holy man and asked, “My life is empty and full of sorrow. What prayers or magic can bring him back?”

The holy man replied, “Bring me a mustard seed from a home that has never known sorrow. We will use it to drive the grief from your life.”

She set out to find such a home but everywhere she went, she found stories of loss and pain. At a grand mansion, the residents told her of their tragedies. Feeling she could console them, she stayed to comfort them. Everywhere she turned, sorrow appeared. Over time, her quest for the magical mustard seed faded as she became immersed in helping others. Ironically, in easing their grief, her own sorrow lifted. She found meaning and even joy in service.

This tale teaches that grief cannot be hurried or hidden. Losing someone dear leaves a wound that cannot be masked by busyness, distractions, or indulgence. Such attempts may only delay the pain. True healing comes through presence, empathy, and compassion. By sharing in the grief of others, we discover our own capacity for hope and peace.

The story echoes the Peace Prayer of St. Francis: “Where there is despair, let me bring hope; where there is sadness, let me bring joy.” By reaching out to others, we not only comfort them but also allow our own hearts to heal, finding meaning, connection, and even joy in the process.

“Healing grows quietly when we share in the grief of others.”

Notes

Kushner H. S. (1981). When bad things happen to good people (p. 122-123). Anchor Books.

Faith’s True Enemy: Not Doubt, but Certitude

Faith is an essential element in the lives of people who believe in God or follow some form of religious or spiritual practice. Often, doubt is presented as the opposite of faith. Among many things, doubt can be about the existence, presence, or support of God. Questions such as Does God exist? or Is God present in my life, particularly in painful events? arise from our struggles and can lead us through seasons that feel dark, long, lonely, and painful. Yet, if the intention is genuine, these very questions can move us toward a faith that is far stronger than a faith that has never wrestled with doubt. In fact, many of the saintly and wise individuals throughout history have struggled deeply with doubts, and it was precisely through this struggle that their faith grew more authentic and resilient.

Richard Rohr, a Franciscan writer, makes a surprising claim: “Doubt is not the opposite of faith; it is certitude.” Certitude is the strong, even obstinate belief that one is right about God and spiritual realities. In certitude, a person becomes so absorbed in their own ego-driven thinking that they believe they cannot be wrong. They appear confident, even authoritative, about who God is, what God wants, and how God acts. Yet this stance is, at its core, ignorance and arrogance—though from the outside it may appear persuasive or even holy.

The danger of certitude is that it leaves no space for others or for God. A person consumed by it cannot truly love, because they cannot see beyond their rigid thinking. This kind of certitude breeds superiority and, sadly, hatred. Ironically, it often flourishes among those who have long practiced religion. History and present times are filled with painful examples of the harm born of such arrogance.

To walk a spiritual path faithfully, it is okay—even necessary—to doubt. Doubt humbles us. It opens the door to seek God’s light, to consult the wisdom of others, and to recognize our own limitations. Those who doubt are teachable; they can approach others with openness and learn from their experiences. Those who cling to certitude, by contrast, are more likely to remain proud, blind, and unable to grow.

Doubt, when held prayerfully, can become a spiritual tool—a way to discern God’s will and presence. We can never presume to fully know God or to speak with final authority about what God desires. Instead, in humility, we can return to God again and again, asking to be shown the way. Seeking God’s guidance is not a one-time act but a daily practice of openness and surrender.

Certitude blocks the journey toward God. Doubt, paradoxically, keeps the heart open. In the very act of questioning, we remain humble seekers of the One who cannot be contained by our certainty.

            

Notes

Rohr, R. (2024). Richard Rohr on His New Book "The Tears of Things" | Greenbelt Festival 2024