When Love Grows Quiet
Rediscovering the Heart of Jesus in a Divided Church
Imagine Jesus walking into a room filled with His own followers. They sing His name, preach His Word, break bread in remembrance. But the room isn’t whole. It's divided, scattered into groups shaped by old debates and newer disappointments. You can almost feel the tension. One group defends a tradition, another champions a revelation. Conversations tilt toward correction. The warmth of shared faith begins to cool under the weight of suspicion.
Long before the cross, Jesus asked the Father for something deeply personal: that those who believe in Him would be one. He wasn’t thinking organizational unity or identical beliefs. He was asking for a shared life. A way of being together that mirrored the intimacy He shares with the Father. You can hear it in His voice in John 17:21, “that they may all be one; even as thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee, that they also may be in us.”
That prayer still lingers in the air. But the Church often forgets it. Lines are drawn, sides are taken, and somehow we feel safer defending our side than stepping into the mystery of unity. It’s easier to point out what’s wrong in someone else’s theology than to walk with them as family. Over time, the disagreements get louder, and love grows quiet.
This grieves Jesus. Not in a distant, abstract way but in the way a father’s heart aches when his children stop speaking to each other. The wounds aren’t just emotional; they become visible. Congregations shrink. People drift, not always from God, but from what the Church has become. The room that once sang with joy grows thin with silence.
The numbers aren’t the issue, but they tell part of the story. Where unity fades, presence often follows. And when people stop encountering the love of God through the love of His people, something essential is lost. Not because truth no longer matters, but because love has always carried the truth with it. Without that, the message feels hollow.
Jesus never invited us to uniformity. He called us to love. To carry one another’s burdens. To seek peace. To stay tender in disagreement. Ephesians 4:2–3 reminds us of this posture: humility, gentleness, patience, and the effort to guard unity like a sacred fire.
These things are not distractions from the Gospel. They are the Gospel made visible.
Maybe it’s time to return to that quiet center. To remember that the Church is a body, not a brand. That every believer, no matter their accent or tradition, carries a piece of the image of Christ. And that the world, now more than ever, is watching. Not to see who’s right, but to see if love is still real.
There is still time. The Shepherd is still gathering. And the door is still open to a more excellent way. One marked not by noise, but by love that endures, listens, and holds fast.
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