When My Spirit Is Offended, It Is Not a Weakness
I have been told – gently, sometimes lovingly – that I feel too much. That I need to not let everything impact me so deeply. That the state of the world does not pertain to me personally. That my grief, my anger, my tears are a form of overexposure – something to be managed, softened, muted.
I understand the concern.
I know the weight I carry is heavy.
I know it shows up in my body, my sleep, my breath.
But what I am learning – slowly, tenderly – is that what bruises me is not fragility.
It is formation.
I was raised in a faith tradition that taught me to distrust myself.
To doubt my instincts.
To question my intuition.
To silence my spirit in the name of obedience.
“Do not lean on your own understanding,” they said – but what they meant was: Do not listen to the voice inside you if it contradicts power.
So I learned to override my own knowing.
To second-guess my reactions.
To call discernment “emotion.”
To label conviction as “being dramatic.”
And now – years later, midlife, post-deconstruction – I am doing the slow, sacred work of learning to trust myself again. Not because I believe I am god.
But because I believe God dwells within me.
I believe the Spirit is not distant or abstract, but present – alive in my nervous system, tender in my gut, responsive in my chest.
So when my spirit recoils at injustice, when it aches at cruelty, when it flares at policies and postures that harm my neighbors – I no longer believe that is me being “too sensitive.”
I believe that is holiness being disturbed.
I have heard the quote – paraphrased a dozen ways – that says our task on this earth is to escort one another home.
That we are not meant to arrive at heaven alone, but hand-in-hand.
That salvation is communal, not solitary.
I believe that deeply.
Which is why I cannot make peace with the idea that only what affects me personally deserves my concern.
That I should quiet my outrage if I am not the one bleeding.
That empathy should have limits for the sake of comfort.
Loving my neighbor has never felt abstract to me.
It is visceral.
It has weight.
It has cost.
And yes – there are people I do not like. Not because I am unloving, but because their beliefs endanger those I am called to protect.
I have learned that dislike is not the opposite of love.
Indifference is.
When people tell me to stop letting things affect me so deeply, something in me bristles.
Not defensively – but righteously.
My spirit is offended.
Not at disagreement.
But at the suggestion that tenderness is a liability.
That righteous anger is unbecoming.
That grief for the world is a sign of immaturity rather than spiritual depth.
I am not interested in a faith that requires emotional anesthesia. I am not pursuing peace through numbness. I am not willing to trade compassion for composure.
If God is love – then the ache I feel when love is violated is not a problem to fix.
It is a signal to honor.
So I will continue to cry.
And yes, sometimes I will rage.
And I will keep listening to the places in me that tighten, tremble, grieve, and refuse to be quiet.
Because after decades of being told not to trust my spirit, I am finally learning that my sensitivity is not excess.
It is evidence.
A Honest Prayer for the Spirit That Feels Everything
God of nearness, does not flinch at tears or turn away from anger – I come to You with a heart that feels too much for a world that prefers restraint.
I have been told to harden.
To look away.
To protect myself by caring less.
But something holy in me refuses to comply.
When my chest tightens at injustice, when my breath catches at cruelty, when grief rises faster than I can explain – meet me there.
Do not let me mistake conviction for weakness or tenderness for immaturity.
I am learning – slowly – to trust the spirit You placed within me.
The one I was taught to doubt.
The one I was trained to silence.
The one that knows, before words arrive, when love has been violated.
If this ache is the cost of loving my neighbor, give me strength to bear it without becoming bitter.
If this anger is the spark of righteousness, teach me how to wield it without harm.
If these tears are intercession, let them fall without shame.
Remind me that You are not offended by my questions, not threatened by my fury,not disappointed by my grief.
You dwell here – in my gut-level knowing,in my trembling resolve, in my refusal to make peace with what wounds Your children.
When others tell me to care less, anchor me in the truth that love always costs something.
When I am tempted to numb myself for survival, call me back to the courage of staying soft.
Guard my heart, but do not harden it.
Give me rest, but do not ask me to look away.
And when my spirit bristles, when it recoils, when it refuses to be quiet – let me recognize that as Your nearness, not my failure.
Teach me how to live with an open heart in a brutal world without losing my joy, my tenderness, or my faith.
Amen.