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