In the soft glow of morning light filtering through my kitchen window, I found myself stirring honey into my tea while reflecting on a conversation that had unfolded at last night's prayer circle. A passionate brother in Christ had shared his frustration about the state of our world, his voice rising with each example of what he perceived as society's moral failings. "Sometimes we need to be harsh with people," he insisted. "Love means telling hard truths, even when it hurts."

The ancient proverb reminds us that "a gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger," yet how easily we forget this divine wisdom when conviction burns bright within us. As I sipped my tea, I contemplated how often we mistake forceful confrontation for meaningful transformation.

When I was younger, I believed that if I could just articulate my spiritual understanding with enough passion and precision, others would naturally see the light. I wielded my words like weapons, cutting through what I perceived as others' ignorance or resistance. Can you feel the familiar energy of this approach? That righteous certainty that turns dialogue into declaration?

The apostle Paul writes to the Corinthians, "If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal." I've come to understand this passage not merely as poetic scripture but as practical spiritual technology. Our words, no matter how doctrinally sound or biblically rooted, become spiritual noise pollution when delivered without the frequency of genuine compassion.

Walking home from the Farmers market yesterday, I witnessed two drivers locked in conflict—one had apparently cut off the other in traffic. At the red light, the offended driver rolled down his window, shouting accusations and judgments. The other driver responded in kind, each voice rising above the other in a symphony of disconnection. Neither man drove away transformed; each simply retreated deeper into his narrative of righteousness.

True spiritual evolution isn't about winning arguments but about transcending the need to position ourselves above others. The Gospel tells us, "By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." Notice it doesn't say "if you correct one another" or "if you are right about theological matters."

I've witnessed this phenomenon in interfaith gatherings worldwide: lasting transformation occurs not through intellectual dominance but through the mysterious alchemy of presence and reverence for another's journey. A minister once shared with me that after forty years of preaching, his most profound spiritual work began when he learned to listen with his heart rather than prepare his response.

Perhaps you've experienced similar moments of clarity when you realized that your most cherished relationships weren't built on successful arguments but on successful understanding. When I first acknowledged this truth, I stood at the threshold between spiritual performance and authentic connection.

Each time we choose curiosity over condemnation, attunement over argument, or presence over proving our point, we recalibrate our internal systems toward divine harmony. The journey requires humility—acknowledging that our perspective, no matter how evolved it may seem to us, remains just that: a perspective.

As the mystic Thomas Merton wrote, "The beginning of love is the will to let those we love be perfectly themselves." This applies not only to our intimate relationships but to our spiritual communities and even to strangers we encounter. We cannot force others into the garden of our understanding by throwing thorns at their feet.

The fantasy many spiritual seekers carry is that through enough theological debate, scriptural quotation, or righteous indignation, we can somehow create heaven on earth. This fairytale ending—where everyone comes to share our exact understanding—keeps us trapped in cycles of frustration and judgment. It keeps us buying into the illusion that spiritual maturity is measured by how many others agree with our position.

I've discovered in my own journey that moving forward with our brothers and sisters in Christ—indeed, with all our human family—requires something far more challenging than being right or even being persuasive. It requires the courage to remain open when we feel threatened, to listen when we yearn to speak, to hold space for divergent paths toward the divine.

Together, we are remembering that the kingdom is not built through conquest but through connection. The early Christians amazed the Roman world not through winning arguments but through the radical nature of their love—caring for the sick during plagues, embracing the outcast, sharing resources across social boundaries.

As I placed my empty teacup in the sink, I recognized that we often approach our spiritual relationships like amateur gardeners who believe pulling weeds is enough to create a thriving ecosystem. We focus on removing what we perceive as wrong in others rather than nurturing the conditions where authentic transformation can naturally emerge.

The challenges before us—polarization, disconnection, spiritual bypassing—require nothing less than our complete presence and commitment to conscious evolution beyond the need to be right. As Jesus asked, "Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?"

I invite you to consider: Where are you still attempting to create your spiritual fairytale by forcing others into your narrative rather than co-creating a story large enough to hold multiple perspectives? What becomes possible when we move beyond rudeness disguised as righteousness and into the vulnerable territory of authentic spiritual companionship?

With profound love and reverence for your journey,

Mitchell Royel

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