The Hardness of Your Hearts

As far as I know, no one has ever woken up in the morning, looked out the window, and thought, “This is a beautiful sunrise. I’ll have to be very careful not to let it make me happy.”

But I’m certain that every day, lots of people — including, on not-infrequent occasions, myself — have woken up and remembered something that happened the day before. Something that made us feel upset or frustrated or insulted. And we thought to ourselves, “That makes me so, so angry.” And we’ve pictured the face of the person who made us feel that way, and we have scoffed with disgust.

And we hold onto that anger because anger feels so much better than sadness. And deep within ourselves, in the place where we feel all the love and pain and confusion that is inherent in human existence, we harden.

Nobody ever intends to be hard-hearted. That’s just the stuff of Bond villains and horror flicks. No, in real life a hardened heart isn’t a conscious choice. It’s a reflex. It’s just us trying to protect ourselves, to be strong — or, at least, to embody the version of strength offered by a fallen world.

A heart of stone is not so easily scratched, you see. But it’s also not so easily warmed or touched or moved. 

A heart hardened by resentment and pain and anger is not just protected from injury. It is protected from the impact of the whole spectrum of tender feelings. It is not open to forgiveness, so it cannot feel the rush of life-giving mercy. It is closed off to new ideas, so it can never feel the awe of discovery.

There is a reason we are called to guard ourselves against hard-heartedness. God gave us hearts of flesh and blood. They are hearts that can be broken, yes — but also, they are hearts that can be made new.

©LPi