A Note on Awakening to the World’s Cry
A few years ago, I was invited to give a talk at an old church in London. This particular church had a very intriguing modern history: in the 1990s, it was bombed by the IRA. After being rebuilt, the Bishop of London decided to turn it into a Center for Peace and Reconciliation. Today, it is a place for many young seekers who may not always feel at home in the church but who find a home in that particular one, as they seek a spirituality that can help them address some of the wounds of the world.
After my talk, a young woman approached and asked if she could speak with me. We went outside and sat on the floor of a big Bedouin tent located in the church’s courtyard. She had some serious questions that she wanted to talk about, questions not so unusual for a person her age. Questions about what a young person is to do with their life in our seemingly broken world. Questions about how to respond to everything that is not working in our world without feeling paralyzed by overwhelming worry. Questions about living with integrity and decency. Questions about our future, and the fact that sometimes it feels like the future is being stolen from our youth by all of us who so willingly dismiss any dreams of a better tomorrow as impractical as soon as we realize that any real societal change will require us to change.
And so, we sat there on the floor of that Bedouin tent and talked for a while. At some point in our conversation, as we talked about her specific vocation and calling, and how people often encouraged her to follow her passion and do what makes her feel good, I remembered the advice of one of my own mentors, Andrew Harvey. He said—and I’m sure he was responding to a famous bumper sticker from the 1980s still seen on many cars: “Don’t ‘follow your bliss.’ Look at the world and see where following our bliss has gotten us. Instead, follow your heartbreak.” So that’s what I said to that young woman that day in London: “Look at the world. What breaks your heart? And let your heartbreak be your guide.”
I had mostly forgotten about that conversation until months later when I received a message from her. She said that she had sat with that “What breaks your heart?” question for a long time until she could not sit with it any longer. Somewhat frustrated, she turned on the TV and saw the stories of Syrian refugees arriving on the Greek island of Lesvos. Women, children, men—all scared and broken, some barely alive. Escaping the violence of war, hoping that they could survive the journey across the ocean, hoping for a new life. When she saw that, she knew that she needed to do something about it. Immediately, she got on the internet, bought a ticket, and without telling a soul, went to Lesvos the next morning to be there for those who were reaching the shores of the island. Being there broke her heart and brought her to her knees. But it also gave her a new life and a new joy. Not a false kind of joy that is the result of avoiding life’s discomforts, but rather a joy that knows difficulties and heartbreaks and yet still survives. A joy that is an assurance that you are doing what you were born to do, an assurance that you are saying yes to the person you are meant to be.
This young woman eventually went back to London and helped organize her friends and colleagues at the church where we had originally met, helping to turn that church into a training center to prepare people to go and serve in refugee camps and become advocates for refugee families in the United Kingdom, who were otherwise often unwelcome there.
We too, like this courageous young woman, can let the pain and panic of our world serve as a sacred call, inviting us to reconsider our response. Each encounter—be it a migrant family we pass by on the street, a frightened college student facing a stolen future, or another absurd political headline—has the potential to break open our hearts. Not to paralyze us, but to awaken us.
We are invited into a spiritual practice that encourages us not just to welcome these difficult realities into our lives, but also to trust in a greater Presence to hold them with us. When our hearts break, there is something profound beneath the surface. If we pay attention and consent to that almost silent energy, something gently picks up the scattered pieces of our lives and reassembles them into what can become our unique gift to the world. Our wounds become places of healing, renewal, and ultimately, hope.
My mentor once told me, “Each of us comes into this world to fix just one thing. What are you here to fix? You better find out because no one else can fix what you are here to fix.” While this may be more metaphorical than literal truth, its message is profoundly important. We are here to listen deeply and to discover what is uniquely ours to do. We are here to respond faithfully, inviting the Spirit into our brokenness, allowing it to be both worker and guide.
I invite you now to reflect deeply: What breaks your heart? How will you respond? Take courage, knowing that you do not walk this path alone. José N. Harris reminds us that “the tears we shed for another person are not a sign of weakness. They are a sign of a pure heart.” Similarly, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. calls us to embody a “dangerous unselfishness,” urging us to stand with and for one another, even at great personal cost.
So let your heartbreak be your guide. Pray, listen, and act. The future of our world depends on our willingness to say “yes” to this sacred call.
Part of this reflection is adapted from my book, Let Your Heartbreak Be Your Guide: Lessons in Engaged Contemplation. If these words speak to you, I warmly invite you to explore the book further—written as an offering to help us bear witness, awaken compassion, and respond wholeheartedly to the needs of our times.
Shared from Fr. Adam Bucko’s Substack
