Stop Trying to Earn God’s Love — He’s Already in Love With You

The hardest truth to believe is also the most Catholic

We are often told that we should seek God. And that’s true — but we are rarely told another truth, one that is just as foundational, just as Catholic, and far more healing:

It is not only we who seek God — He also seeks us.

Did you know that before you felt the ache to pray, He was already whispering your name? Before you knelt, He had already risen. Before you even realized you were lost, He had already begun the search.

You likely weren’t told this. Most of us weren’t. Because many of us were quietly taught — even if never outright stated — that we must climb the mountain just to earn a glance. That we must maintain a tidy interior life, like a nervous servant preparing for the arrival of a moody king.

It’s often implied that love must be won. That divine favor is fragile. That God wants our productivity, when what He really desires is our presence. That He asks for spiritual industry, when in truth, He longs for intimacy.

God is not watching from a distance, arms crossed, waiting for progress — only then willing to offer His love.

Did the Father in the parable of the Prodigal Son wait for a polished apology before running to his child? No. He leapt at the sight of his son walking home.

Did Christ demand that the disciples recite Psalm 51 in Gethsemane? No — He simply asked them to sit with Him.

And yet how often do we treat God as if He must be summoned? As if holiness means scaling a cliff just to reach Him?

But there is no mountain. There is only a road. And if we go to Him walking, He comes to us running.

He is not a distant figure brooding behind clouds, watching for mistakes. He is a Bridegroom. And He comes seeking the soul — not to scold it, but to romance it back into union.

Let me tell you a story.

A Bridal Parable

There was once a bride, radiant in white, standing at the back of a great cathedral.

The procession had begun. Candles glowed. Incense curled through the air like breath. The choir sang, and the guests rose to their feet. Everything was ready. And yet — her heart was not.

As she took her first step toward the altar, something inside her faltered. A deep, gnawing fear whispered: You are not ready. You are not worthy. You are not pure enough to be loved like this.

And so she turned and fled.

She ran past the pews, past the candles, past the towering stained glass. She ran into the night with her veil clutched tightly over her face. Not because she didn’t love the Bridegroom, but because she didn’t believe He could truly love her.

She hid among trees and shadows. She wept, ashamed, convinced that she had ruined everything. She waited for judgment, or worse — for silence.

But what she didn’t know was this:

The Bridegroom had already left the altar.

He had thrown off His royal garments and run barefoot into the dark. He searched the fields, calling her name. He looked not with anger, but with aching love. He did not pause to ask why she ran. He did not wait for an apology. He simply wanted her back.

And when He found her, trembling beneath the trees, He knelt beside her. He did not lecture. He did not sigh. He only spoke the words that undo shame:

“You are all fair, my love. There is no flaw in you.” (Song of Songs 4:7)

He took her hand. He lifted her face. And the veil that once hid her became the very cloth in which He wrapped her wounds.

This is the love of the Bridegroom.

This is the love of God.

When You Believe You Have to Earn Love

Many of us hear that parable and feel a quiet ache — because we recognize ourselves in the bride who ran.

We may love God deeply, sincerely. But some part of us still believes we must keep our distance until we’re “ready.” We tell ourselves that once we’ve prayed more, confessed more, performed better — then we’ll be worthy to stand before Him.

This is the root of so much spiritual burnout, anxiety, and scrupulosity. The soul becomes afraid of God, not in the holy sense of awe, but in a disordered fear that says: I must protect myself from Him.

And so we begin to manage our spirituality like a tightrope act — afraid that one missed prayer, one imperfect Mass, one wayward thought might tip the scales.

We fast more, but forget to feast.
We confess compulsively, but never rest in absolution.
We pray, not out of love, but to keep God “appeased.”

It’s as if we think the Bridegroom has grown cold. As if His love is always one misstep from being withdrawn.

But the Gospel tells us otherwise.

The Father does not wait for perfection — He runs at the sight of our return.
Christ does not ask for performance — He asks us to stay awake with Him.
The Holy Spirit does not wait for us to get everything right — He comes in wind and fire to hearts still confused, still afraid.

The truth is both harder and more beautiful than we imagined:
You cannot earn this love. And you don’t have to.

Because the Bridegroom did not fall in love with your performance.
He fell in love with you.

And He is not waiting at the altar tapping His foot. He is out on the road, searching for the one who fled — ready not to scold, but to sweep you into His arms.

The Bible Is a Love Story

This isn’t fringe theology. This isn’t emotional language for mystics only.

The story of Scripture is, at its heart, a love story — a divine romance between God and His people. From beginning to end, the Bible is bookended with a wedding.

In the beginning, we are given a garden — and a bride. In Genesis, God walks with humanity in the cool of the day. Adam and Eve are made for union — not only with each other, but with the One who fashioned them in love.

And in the end, we are given a feast — and a Bride. In Revelation, the heavenly Jerusalem descends "as a bride adorned for her husband" (Rev 21:2), and the wedding supper of the Lamb begins.

But in between these bookends is the ache of the in-between — a God who comes seeking His beloved.

The prophets knew this well.

In Hosea, God calls Israel His unfaithful spouse — but not with scorn. With tears. He speaks of wooing her back into the wilderness, speaking tenderly to her heart (Hosea 2:14). He promises, “You will call me ‘My Husband,’ and no longer ‘My Master.’”

In Isaiah, the Lord says, “As a bridegroom rejoices over his bride, so shall your God rejoice over you” (Isaiah 62:5).

And then there is the Song of Songs — a book so bold in its imagery that medieval monks blushed as they read it aloud. And yet the Church has always understood it as a vision of the soul’s union with God. A bridal canticle of longing, seeking, union, and mystical love.

This is not marginal. This is central.

And in Christ, the Bridegroom steps into the story.

He calls Himself the Bridegroom (Matt 9:15). His first miracle takes place at a wedding feast (John 2). He compares the Kingdom of God to a wedding banquet. His love is not cold, transactional, or merely instructional — it is spousal. Intimate. Fruitful.

And it is this same Christ who is met in the garden after the Resurrection — by Mary Magdalene, who goes seeking the Lord, only to discover that He was already seeking her.

She mistakes Him for the gardener. But of course, He is the Gardener — the one restoring Eden. And He speaks her name, tenderly, as a Bridegroom calls to His beloved.

This is the heart of Scripture. Not just law, but longing. Not just justice, but joy. Not just commandments, but communion.

From Genesis to Revelation, the question has never been simply: Will you obey?
The deeper question has always been: Will you let yourself be loved?

Let Yourself Be Found

At some point, the spiritual life must shift from striving to surrender.

It’s not that the effort was wrong — seeking God is holy. But many of us were taught to seek like orphans, not like brides. We thought the goal was to prove ourselves lovable, instead of realizing we were already being loved.

There is a turning point in the life of the soul: when you stop trying to earn His gaze and simply allow yourself to be seen.

This is not passivity. It’s not complacency. It’s consent.

To be found by God means letting Him walk into the rooms you’ve kept locked. It means trusting that when He sees the mess, the failure, the fatigue — He will not leave. He will draw closer.

Let yourself be found in the weariness.
Let yourself be found in the distraction.
Let yourself be found when you’ve broken your Lenten promise for the fifth time, when you forgot to pray, when you feel numb at Mass.

Let yourself be found when you can’t feel anything at all.

You were not created to live under a ceiling of shame.
You were made to be caught in the arms of a God who runs toward you.

He is not hiding. He is not waiting for better behavior.
He is not testing your sincerity or auditing your disciplines.

He is already on the road.
And He always runs faster than we walk.

In sinu Sponsi requiescam.

(In the Bridegroom’s embrace, I will rest.)

-W.