That kind of internal pressure can bleed out in subtle, damaging ways. In sarcasm. In silence. In passive-aggressive leadership that poisons trust.

If you’ve been there—or if you’re there now—know this: you’re not alone. And you’re not beyond transformation.

Jesus—the one with all authority in heaven and on earth—washed feet.
He didn’t dominate conversations. He didn’t silence dissent with anger or sarcasm. He led by serving. He called out sin, yes, but never from a place of superiority.

Not all of us have a clean record when it comes to relationships. Some carry deep regrets. Some have walked through divorce, infidelity, or relational trauma. That pain is real—and so is the mercy of God.

The Catholic Church does not deny the gravity of sin, but it also never closes the door to redemption and restoration. Through confession, spiritual direction, and sacramental grace, we can be healed and transformed—even after failure.

Titus had been tasked with establishing leadership in newly formed churches. These weren’t long-established communities with polished spiritual resumes. These were brand-new believers—people still learning what it meant to follow Christ in a culture that didn’t exactly encourage holiness.

If you’ve ever read through Paul’s letters, you’ve probably noticed a pattern: “Grace and peace” shows up near the beginning of nearly every one.

It’s easy to skip over. We tend to read those words like we would “Dear Titus” or “Sincerely, Paul”—just part of a formal letter. But in reality, grace and peace isn’t filler. It’s not religious small talk. It’s the heart of the gospel in two words.

Theology has always been a subject I’ve loved—one of the first things that really awakened my mind and heart when I was young. I remember the early days of exploring the mystery of God. Back then, I didn’t need every answer.

Even mature believers need reminders of God’s faithfulness—especially when life gets hard. Just because we know God doesn’t lie doesn’t mean we always feel that way. Suffering, discouragement, betrayal—they can all cause us to doubt what we know in our heads.

Imagine what would happen if we rediscovered this kind of love—not just as an idea, but as a way of life. Not just in moments of sentimentality, but in the everyday grind of life. In traffic. At the dinner table. With co-workers. With our enemies.

Imagine if the Church—your church, my church—was so marked by this kind of agápē that the world had to take notice again.

In our quest for order and practicality, we’ve grown blind to the staggering miracle of existence itself. Rationalism, stripped of awe, leaves us with cold facts and no fire. But moments of art, of beauty, of spiritual ecstasy—these pierce the veil. They are brief, radiant flashes in which we remember how incredible this world truly is.

This isn’t an attempt to win anyone over to a particular doctrine. It’s just a glimpse into the healing process I’ve discovered. A way of understanding that grace doesn’t bypass suffering—it enters into it. God’s grace finds us in our broken boats, leaking and tired, and says, “Let’s start plugging these holes—together.”