Wounded Hearts, Welcoming Ears:
On Identity, Faith, and the Month of June
Human beings carry many identities. Some are chosen, some are inherited, some evolve. We move through life with this multiplicity: professional, familial, religious, national, gendered, and sexual. And all of these identities seek one thing — recognition. But not all identities weigh equally at all times. Sometimes, I might feel more fulfilled if I am seen and appreciated in my role as a parent than in my professional identity. At other times, being acknowledged as a thinker or writer might feel more vital than being seen as a member of my family.
This shifting importance of identity is not irrational; it is human. Our identities are not fixed bricks — they are fluid, relational, in motion. And when one of these identities is not recognized, or worse, denied, it causes pain, confusion, and sometimes, heartbreak. Marriages, for example, often begin with mutual recognition of each other as lovers, as partners. But when, over time, other identities begin to assert themselves, and are no longer welcomed or accepted by the other — be it career ambition, intellectual curiosity, sexual identity, or spiritual longing — the relationship can falter. In some cases, it may even end. Recognition is not merely a symbolic gesture; it is existential breath.
As a Jesuit priest, I sit for confessions regularly. People come, bearing not just their sins, but their deep personal complexities. Most of the time, people know what is right or wrong. When someone says, “I disobeyed my parents,” they already know obedience is expected. Telling them to obey rarely helps. So I ask: why? What moved you? What is the story behind the act? And often, something deeper is revealed — a struggle for autonomy, a cry for recognition, a misrecognised self.
And in those moments, I sometimes say something very simple, almost banal: “God loves you as you are.”
It isn’t new information. Most Christians know it by heart. But when said in the sacred space of confession — at the most vulnerable point in someone’s story — it is not just knowledge. It becomes recognition. A priest, standing as a representative of the Church, says: “You are still loved.” And in the long night of non-recognition — by family, by institutions, by society, by oneself — this tiny assurance can shine like a flame.
I have come to believe that this is one of the most precious gifts Christianity can offer: not doctrinal certainty, not moral superiority, but a love that says: “You are seen, and you are loved.” And yet, we Christians often fail to offer this gift. We forget that our faith is not about converting people into categories, but recognising people in their complexity.
This June, we celebrate the month of the Sacred Heart — a heart burning with love, wounded yet beating for all, open and overflowing. The Sacred Heart, to me, is not only about devotion but about radical recognition. It is a divine love that sees through our fragmented identities, and still holds them together in compassion. Having various identities is part of our human life, and the heart of Jesus recognises them and weaves them in communion and radically transforms them in love.
We love because he first loved us. (1Jn 4:19)
Recognition of us by Jesus can help us to recognise others, especially those we find difficult to recognise. Recognition is not always agreement and that is okay.
June is also Pride Month, a time when people with LGBTQIA+ identities share their stories and seek recognition — not only in terms of law or representation, but in the deeper sense of being seen, understood, and not rejected. I am not telling you on how to “celebrate” or not celebrate Pride. That is a personal decision. What I am asking is something much simpler — and more difficult: Can you listen?
I have listened. In the confessional, I have heard the pain of people who are torn — between their faith and their sexuality. I have sat with those who love the Church, yet feel it cannot love them back. I don’t always know what to say. But I know this: listening is sacred.
If you are a heterosexual person, think about your own sexual identity. For many, it’s central; for others, not so much. But imagine, for a moment, what it would be like if that identity — however central or peripheral — were not accepted by your community, your Church, your family. That is the void many queer people inhabit. Whether you agree or disagree with them, can you make space to hear their stories?
Not every story demands agreement. But every story deserves to be heard.
Jesus listened. He sat with the fragmented, the rejected, the misunderstood — not to change them, but to be changed with them into a deeper communion. He listened first. Maybe the Sacred Heart, in this month of overlapping meanings, is inviting us to do the same.
Let this be a month of encounters. A month of recognising identities, of listening without rushing to judge or fix. A month of holding others in our hearts, especially those whose stories unsettle us. Who knows? In that listening, something beautiful may emerge — not a doctrine, but a communion.
