You are a soul. Not an algorithm. Not a hashtag. A soul knit together by a God who does not mock, does not abandon, and does not lie.
There’s a hunger in the world now, not just for bread but for meaning. A hunger not of the stomach, but of the soul. A thirst that no slogan can quench, no flag can cover. And if you’ve felt it—that ache behind the ribs, that want for something deeper—you’re not alone.
The world we’ve inherited is clever, wired, fast-talking. It can mimic beauty, parrot truth, fake kindness. But it cannot bleed for you. It cannot know your name. It cannot love with scars.
What we’re watching and what we’re living through isn’t just culture shift. It’s soul drift.
Language is being torn at the seams. Words that once steadied us, words such as mother, father, man, woman, have been loosened from their roots and set adrift, like boats with no rudder, no anchor, no map. They now float free in the storm of self-invention. And in the midst of this, real people, real sons, real daughters, are being swept up. They are told they must choose between truth and love, when in Christ, they were never meant to be divided.
This isn’t about hate. It isn’t about picking sides.
It’s about hunger. It’s about the old ache for belonging, for blessing, for a name spoken with love.
So let’s speak plainly.
You are not your wounds.
You are not a personal project or a biological mistake or a political pawn.
You are not the confusion others placed upon you, or the slogans you’ve had to chant to feel safe.
You are a soul. Not an algorithm. Not a hashtag. A soul knit together by a God who does not mock, does not abandon, and does not lie.
There are powers in this world that profit from confusion. There are regimes that have learned to twist kindness into a leash and identity into a cage. What began as a cry for compassion has, in places, grown teeth. It now snarls at truth and demands loyalty, not to people, but to The Machine of ideological obedience. It’s slick, funded, and relentless. But it cannot love. Not the way Christ does.
Because Christ’s love is not a feeling. It is not soft or smooth or sterile. It is blood-soaked. It’s the smell of sweat and wood and torn bread. It is a God who put on flesh, not just to walk beside us, but to bear what we could not.
Christ doesn’t affirm lies. But he also never turns away the wounded.
If you’ve been told that Christianity means rejection, that you must choose between being loved by God or being honest about yourself, then hear this: someone has lied to you.
Jesus Christ doesn’t deal in shame games or forced conversions. He doesn’t traffic in slogans or visibility campaigns. He comes as a safe harbor in a storm, as warm bread torn open on a winter’s table. He comes with scars, not slogans, with mercy, not manipulation.
Yes, he calls us to repent. To turn around. But not as a punishment. As a homecoming.
You don’t need to reinvent yourself to be loved. You don’t need to parade or protest or pass every test. You don’t need to wear the mask of “affirmation” to be safe.
You need only be seen. As you are. In the truth.
That truth might sting at first, like salt in a wound. But it heals.
And that’s the hardest thing in the world today, truth spoken in love. Not flattery. Not indulgence. Not control. Just truth, with guts.
Because when someone tells you, “You are perfect just as you are,” they may mean well, but they rob you of the deeper gift. The truth that you are loved even in your imperfection. That God sees you through and through, and does not look away.
That’s not hatred. That’s holy.
You are not the sum of your feelings. You are not your shame, your pride, or your pronouns. You are not a walking slogan. You are a soul called by name.
And Christ, he’s not confused. He’s not caught up in culture wars. He’s not interested in which side you’re on. He’s interested in you.
Not the “you” you perform for safety. The you he made. The you that longs to be held without fear, spoken to without pretense, named without shame.
The Irish word for heart is, “croí.” Not just the organ, but the deep place inside where your life pulses. And there’s another, “cumha,” or the grief-shaped longing. The ache for home, for wholeness. If you’ve felt that, if you feel it now, it’s not a flaw. It’s your soul calling out for its Maker.
And here’s the gospel truth, plain and clear:
Jesus Christ is not here to erase you. He’s here to raise you.
Not to flatten your story, but to redeem it. Not to shame your past, but to carry it—nail and all—into his own.
He calls you by name, not by a label. He calls you out of confusion, not with angry ranting, but with the proclamation of love that steadies the hands, lifts the chin, and says, “Come home.”
Jesus Christ is not here to erase you. He’s here to raise you.
This world will keep twisting the wires. The Machine will keep roaring. But you don’t belong to The Machine. You belong to Christ.
So if you are weary, if you are raw and tired and done with the noise, come to him.
You won’t find slogans. You won’t find erasure. You’ll find the Truth, forgiveness, and the kind of love that doesn’t need to be earned or demanded, only received.
As the old Irish blessing goes, Go mbeannaí Dia duit agus go ndéana Sé maith duit—”May God bless you and may he do good to you.”
And he will. He already has.
So lay down the slogans. Lay down the shame. Come home.
He’s already set the table.
The bread is warm.
And your name is still safe in his mouth.
