We have become experts at pointing out what is wrong.

From gas pump prices and pandemic protocols to education issues and inflation, we aren’t just angry, we’re indignant. And I understand — for good reason. Things have been messed up.

But isn’t it exhausting? Living like this? Pointing out all that is wrong?

I know I’m tired of it. And it isn’t good when I see my own children mirroring my behavior.

My middle school sons love ’80s music. I don’t know if this is due to the series “Stranger Things” or the “Top Gun” sequel, but I don’t mind. They are playing all my tunes and I’m here for it.

One song that has been on repeat is General Public’s “Tenderness.” It’s a catchy, happy song, but when I listen to it, I find myself convicted for lack of tenderness.

Tenderness,

Where is the

Tenderness?

Hearing this, I know this is what has been missing. We’ve been on the defensive for so long, we’ve lost tenderness.

General Public sings on:

I open my mouth, and out pops something spiteful

Words are so cheap, but they can turn out expensive

We’ve been living on the defensive.

Ready to pounce on every little thing we notice that is wrong. We’ve turned into loose cannons. Our mouths unleash spite, hurt, cheap words that harm more than the effort they were worth. And I’ve even heard God’s word, Scripture, used as a weapon — hurled at others as a way to justify our anger.

The answer? Tenderness.

Even saying the word, I feel my face change. A sweetness spreads from my eyes to my heart. This is why we are drawn to Jesus, because of his tenderness; the way Jesus not only healed the leper and the paralytic, but mended the hearts of Zacchaeus and the Samaritan woman. And the way Jesus heals our hearts.

Tenderness is relational. There is a humility in tenderness.

I think of how Jesus wept at Lazarus’ grave when he saw Martha and Mary grieving for their brother. Or even though Jesus was popular and busy, when a desperate woman suffering 12 years of medical torment crept to touch the corner of his cloak, he stopped to let her know his mercy was for her too. And in his final breaths, he made certain his mother would be cared for.

But we are too hurt and angry for tenderness? To bend rules, like he did? To listen?

Maybe we have forgotten the darkness we were in before Jesus came into our lives. Or maybe he has always been there for us, that we’ve never known what it is like to live without him.

Or we’ve forgotten what happens when we are treated with tenderness. How tenderness transforms.

For writer Flannery O’Connor, tenderness was inexplicably connected to the person of Christ. She wrote, “when tenderness is detached from the source of tenderness,” that is, Christ, “its logical outcome is terror. It ends in forced-labor camps and in the fumes of the gas chamber.”

It’s a haunting quote. A frightening prospect and yet, I know, deep down it’s true. If we try to do this on our own, we are doomed.

I want to point out what is right, beautiful and good. To be tender.

And so fiercely, I cling to Christ, to his word, his body, the Church and the Eucharist.

Make me tender, like You.