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

 

The Gift of Choice

What separates humans from animals? One of the greatest distinctions is our ability to choose between good and bad. Animals act on instinct; they do not wrestle with questions about careers, partners, or death. Humans, on the other hand, know they are mortal and live with the weight of their choices.

God created humans as moral beings, endowed with the freedom to choose right or wrong. If someone wants to steal cookies, God does not hide the jar. Humans are free to steal or to work and buy cookies. If God prevented every wrong choice, freedom would be meaningless, and humans would be reduced to creatures driven only by instinct or pressure.

Freedom is both a great gift and a serious responsibility. Each day, people can choose to love or to harm, to bring peace or to create conflict. History is filled with examples of choices that have blessed the world, as well as choices that have caused suffering.

No one always chooses perfectly. That is why humans need humility and discernment in using their freedom. Reflection helps us learn from past decisions—the good, the bad, and even the painful. We can also learn from the choices of others, without repeating every mistake ourselves.

Choosing is not always easy, but it is in the very act of choosing that we live up to our human dignity. As the book of Deuteronomy says, “I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life” (Deut. 30:19).

To be human is to choose—and in choosing, we become who we are.

 

Notes

Kushner H. S. (1981). When bad things happen to good people (pp. 88-90). Anchor Books.

When Grief Knocks, Let Love In

Loss is part of the human story. We lose possessions, jobs, relationships, and sometimes the people we love most. Any loss can be painful, but losing someone who has been part of your life for a long time can feel like the weight of the world pressing on your heart. You may wonder how life can have meaning without them. Everything can seem empty and joyless. You might withdraw from people and slip into isolation.

Grief is personal and shaped by each person’s culture, beliefs, and relationship to the one they’ve lost. There is no single “right” way to grieve. For some, being alone for a time can offer space to process. But staying apart from the care of family, friends, and community for too long can deepen loneliness instead of bringing healing.

Rabbi Harold Kushner offers a gentle reminder for such times: when grief knocks, open the door and let people in. Allow them to come into your home, share in your sorrow, and remind you that you are still alive and part of a living world. Nothing can replace the person you’ve lost, but that doesn’t mean they should be buried in silence. You can keep their memory alive by speaking about them, sharing their stories, and expressing what you miss most.

Opening your heart to those who come with genuine care can bring comfort, connection, and a sense of not being alone. Sharing your grief will not bring your loved one back, but it can honor their life and allow their spirit to remain present—woven into your story as you take each step forward.

Grief knocks alone, but healing enters with others.

 

Notes

Kushner H. S. (1981). When bad things happen to good people (p. 133). Anchor Books.

Calming the Terrors of Un-belonging

Humans carry within them a deep, innate need to connect—woven into our very DNA is a longing to belong. Whether we are aware of it or not, this desire quietly guides our choices, our behaviors, and our relationships. To feel like we don’t belong—what we might call un-belonging—can be profoundly painful.

Toko-pa Turner, a Canadian writer and founder of Dream School, speaks powerfully about the ache of being on the outside of belonging. She writes that un-belonging is “the excruciating belief that you are not needed. That life does not consider you necessary. When nobody comes after you with invitation, it confirms your worst fear and sends you pushing further into the province of exile, even towards the cold beckoning of death.”

Her words give voice to the rawness many of us have felt at some point in our lives. For some, this pain is fleeting; for others, it becomes a silent burden carried for years. The feeling that we are not needed or valued can show up anywhere: in a romantic relationship, a friendship, a family system, a faith community, or a workplace. Sometimes it stems from actual rejection. Other times, it's rooted in our own mistaken assumptions—or a painful mix of both. In the grip of un-belonging, we may begin to see ourselves as worthless, pushing away even those who truly care. In extreme cases, this self-rejection can turn inward, leading to despair or even suicidal thoughts. Turner calls suicide “the ultimate self-rejection.”

So what can we do when we feel exiled from connection? Turner offers an unexpected but healing response: to stand fully in our own un-belonging. Rather than fleeing from it, we are invited to become friendly with the terrors of loneliness and exclusion. When we begin to embrace our own aloneness, something powerful happens—we start calming the voices that scream we’re not enough, not lovable, not wanted.

True belonging, it turns out, doesn’t come from avoiding loneliness, but from moving toward it with compassion. As we do this, the fear of rejection loses its grip. We become more rooted in ourselves and more capable of extending invitations to connect—and of receiving the invitations others offer us.

 

Notes 

Turner, T. (2017). Belonging: Remembering ourselves home (pp. 22-25). Her Own Room Press. 

Already Loved

Christian Scripture affirms that God loves us consistently and unconditionally, whether we are good or bad. This raises an honest question: Why be good if we're already loved, even when we act unjustly or exploit others?

Ronald Rolheiser reflects on this with piercing clarity:
If God loves us equally when we are bad and when we are good, then why be good? This is an interesting question, though not a deep one. Love, understood properly, is never a reward for being good. Goodness, rather, is always a consequence of having been loved. We are not loved because we are good, but hopefully we become good as we experience love.

This truth unravels our transactional instincts. Love that requires goodness in exchange is business, not grace. Real love - divine love - doesn't demand worthiness, but creates it. When we're truly soaked in the reality of being accepted as we are, something shifts: we begin to mirror the love we've received.

Rewards and punishments can manufacture temporary compliance, but they can't transform. The moment the incentives disappear, so does the "goodness" they produced. But love - the kind that meets us in our mess and whispers "you're mine" before we change - this love does something radical. It doesn't force goodness upon us; it draws out the goodness placed within us.

To be loved like this is to be given new eyes. We start seeing ourselves as the One who loves us sees us: not as projects to fix, but as beloved to restore. And from this place of secure love, we discover our truest selves - not perfect, but being made whole. Here, goodness isn't an obligation; it's the natural fruit of knowing we're already, irrevocably loved.

 

 

Notes

·       Rolheiser, R. (2014). Sacred fire: A vision for a deeper human and Christian maturity (p. 118). Image.

·       John 3:16, often cited, highlights God's love for the world to the extent of giving his only son.

·       Romans 5:8 emphasizes that God demonstrated his love by sending Christ to die for us even while we were still sinners, demonstrating love regardless of our flaws.