God created us for love, for union, for forgiveness and

“God created us for love, for union, for forgiveness and compassion and, yet, that has not been our storyline. That has not been our history.” Thus speaks Richard Rohr, the modern mystic whose words pierce through the veil of pride and illusion that has long clouded the human heart. In this lament, he does not accuse—he mourns. He does not condemn humanity; he calls it home. For what Rohr reveals is the tragic paradox of our condition: that though our divine design is rooted in love, we have lived by the story of separation; though we were shaped for forgiveness, we have chosen vengeance; though we were meant for union, we have built walls instead of bridges. His words are both a wound and a whisper of hope, reminding us that we have strayed from the path of our creation, yet the path still remains open.

The origin of Rohr’s reflection lies in his lifelong study of the human spirit and his deep immersion in the Christian contemplative tradition. A Franciscan priest, Rohr has long taught that the great sin of the world is not the breaking of laws, but the forgetting of our divine nature—the forgetting that we are made in the image of love itself. When he says “that has not been our history,” he names the story of humankind as one written too often in blood and pride. We have waged wars in the name of God, enslaved others for profit, and divided ourselves by race, nation, and creed. Yet all along, the divine intention was different—union, compassion, and forgiveness were to be our inheritance. Our tragedy is not that we were made imperfect, but that we have lived beneath the perfection of our calling.

To understand Rohr’s words, one must first grasp what he means by “storyline.” Every civilization, every soul, lives according to a story—a pattern of meaning that shapes how we see ourselves and others. Our collective story, he says, has been one of separation—“us versus them,” “good versus evil,” “the saved versus the damned.” We have imagined that our worth depends on comparison, our holiness on judgment, and our strength on domination. But this is not the story God intended. Rohr’s theology, like that of many saints and mystics before him, reminds us that the divine story is not about exclusion, but participation—not about purity through division, but wholeness through union. Love, not fear, was meant to be the ink that writes our days.

History bears witness to this struggle between divine intention and human failure. Consider the words of Martin Luther King Jr., who saw that even in an age of enlightenment and reason, humanity still clung to hatred. “We must learn to live together as brothers,” he said, “or perish together as fools.” His dream, like Rohr’s teaching, was not born of sentiment, but of sacred truth: that union is the law of life, and separation the seed of death. And yet, King’s dream, like the divine dream, remains only partly realized. We still judge more than we understand; we still fear more than we love. But in every act of compassion, in every forgiveness offered where vengeance was expected, the true storyline flickers again into being—the one written not by human pride, but by divine mercy.

Rohr’s words also echo the teaching of the ancient mystics and prophets, those who saw beyond the veils of time. The Hebrew prophet Micah spoke of the same truth when he declared, “What does the Lord require of you but to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?” The Buddha, too, long before him, taught that hatred is never ended by hatred, but only by love. The universality of Rohr’s insight reminds us that love is not the language of one faith, but the native tongue of the human soul. To live without love is to live as an exile from one’s own being.

Yet Rohr’s message is not despairing—it is awakening. He does not say we are lost beyond return; he says we have lost our story, and thus must rewrite it. Our task, then, is not to invent something new, but to remember what has always been true: that we were created to reflect the divine nature through compassion and connection. The first step is awareness—to see how fear, greed, and ego have shaped our choices. The second is repentance—not in the sense of shame, but of turning—a turning back toward the light we have forgotten. For every human being, no matter how far gone, carries within them the ember of divine love, waiting only for the breath of remembrance to ignite it again.

So let this be your teaching, O listener and seeker of wisdom: you were made for love, and nothing less will satisfy the soul. The wars, the divisions, the wounds of history—all are symptoms of forgetting. Begin, then, the sacred work of remembrance. Choose forgiveness over vengeance, empathy over indifference, compassion over power. Let every act of mercy be a line in the new story of humanity—the story that God intended from the beginning. And when the world tells you that cruelty is strength, that division is necessary, and that love is weakness, remember Rohr’s warning and reply with your life: “This is not our true history. This is not who we are.”

For the day will come, as the mystics have long foretold, when the human family remembers its source and its purpose. On that day, love will cease to be a dream and become the law of life once more. Until then, walk as a witness of that greater truth: that forgiveness heals, compassion unites, and love alone endures. In this remembrance, you will not only honor God’s creation—you will finally become it.