The Heart That Refuses to Stay Untouched

Why we call it watchfulness when we are really afraid to love

There is a way of being “spiritual” that never breaks.

It prays.

It reads the Fathers.

It speaks of God with a certain clarity.

And it remains untouched.

It encounters the suffering of others and quietly steps back.

Not outwardly. It remains present. It listens. It speaks gently.

But something within has already withdrawn.

It calls this discernment.

It calls this guarding the heart.

But it is not that.

It is fear.

The Fathers speak of watchfulness, yes.

They speak of guarding the heart from thoughts, from passions, from delusion.

But they never speak of guarding the heart from love.

They never produce a man who can look upon the pain of another and remain inwardly intact.

Look at the saints.

Look at the elders.

They do not stand at a distance from the suffering of the world.

They carry it.

Not as an idea.

Not as a theme in their prayer.

But as a wound.

There is something in us that does not want this.

We will say that we are too weak.

We will say that we need boundaries.

We will say that we must remain stable in God.

And all of this can be true.

But often it is not the truth.

Often it is the refusal to be pierced.

Because to allow the suffering of another to enter the heart is to lose something.

You lose control.

You lose clarity.

You lose the quiet sense that you are still standing on solid ground.

You begin to feel what cannot be resolved.

And so we retreat.

We speak of providence.

We speak of the Cross.

We speak of resurrection.

But we do not remain.

We do not stay long enough for the silence of another’s despair to begin to undo us.

The elders did not flee this.

They entered it.

Not because they were strong.

But because they had already been undone.

A heart that has been brought low before God no longer needs to defend itself from pain.

It does not experience the suffering of another as a threat.

It recognizes it.

There is a deep kinship there.

This is why their compassion was so terrible.

Not sentimental.

Not comforting in the way we often mean.

But real.

They could sit with a man in despair and not move to resolve it.

They could hear the cry that has no answer and not cover it with words.

Because they themselves had stood there.

And remained.

We do not know this kind of love because we do not remain.

We move too quickly to preserve ourselves.

Even in prayer.

Especially in prayer.

We bring the suffering of others before God and then quietly distance ourselves from it.

We offer it.

And then we leave it.

But the saints did not do this.

They entered into the suffering and remained there with God.

They allowed it to pass through them.

To burn within them.

To become prayer.

Not words.

But a groaning that cannot be spoken.

There is no technique for this.

There is only the slow breaking of the heart.

The dismantling of the need to remain untouched.

And this is where many draw back.

Because it feels like losing everything that has held them together.

It feels like becoming vulnerable in a way that cannot be controlled.

It feels like death.

And in a sense it is.

But it is the only way love becomes real.

Not the love we speak about.

Not the love we think we have.

But the love that remains when there is nothing left to protect.

If you find that your heart resists this, do not rush to correct it.

But do not justify it either.

Bring it into the light.

Stand before Christ with it.

Because He does not guard Himself from our suffering.

He does not remain at a distance from it.

He enters it completely.

And remains.

Until the end.

And if we are to become like Him, even in the smallest way, we cannot ask how to love without being wounded.

We can only ask for the grace to remain when it happens.