“He has shown you, O man, what is good;
and what the Lord requires of you:
to act justly..."
Micah 6:8
What Would a Greater Intelligence Notice About Us?
Pause for a moment and bring to mind someone you no longer speak to; someone you may even despise. Now ask yourself why. If you were to write the reason down, would it still hold its weight? Would it sound reasonable, or strangely small? Often, once it’s written on paper, the justification looks thinner than it felt in the moment.
Now turn the lens inward. Think of the worst thing you’ve ever done to another person. Does your body react—tightening, cringing, flooding with shame? That discomfort tells a truth we don’t like to sit with: we know when we’ve crossed a line, even if we’ve spent years avoiding the memory.
Scripture offers a deceptively simple instruction when resentment takes root: go and speak to the person, privately, face to face. Not to gather allies. Not to rehearse grievances. Just the two of you. The reason is sobering—dragging others into our hatred inflames the wound and exposes our own inner condition. If that is so, why surrender years of life to bitterness?
I once belonged to a faith community where I regularly gave public talks. The one people asked for most was titled, “Do you harbour resentment, or do you forgive?” At its core was that same ancient counsel: speak directly, or let the matter go. Hatred, I learned, doesn’t punish the other person nearly as much as it corrodes the one who carries it.
Now imagine a perspective beyond our own—an intelligence observing humanity from outside our small sphere of existence. What would it see?
It would likely notice how often we erupt over things that barely matter. Someone who reminds you what you failed to do. A parking space. A passing comment. Tiny sparks that somehow ignite full-blown conflict. But these clashes are rarely about the surface issue. Beneath them lie pride, insecurity, fear of being dismissed, fear of being wrong.
Many conflicts begin with the feeling of having been wronged, even when no harm was intended. A misunderstood word, a careless tone, a moment read through the lens of our own wounds. The resentment that follows can linger for years, long after the original event has faded into distortion. The argument becomes symbolic, while the real pain goes unnamed.
Religion, too, has often been a fault line. People have separated, condemned, even killed one another over differences in belief—despite the fact that doctrines evolve, fracture, and reform across time. What begins as a search for truth hardens into tribal identity. In defending belonging, compassion is often sacrificed.
There is also a quieter conflict: the anger we feel when advice brushes against our vulnerabilities. A suggestion, however well-meant, can feel like an accusation. Rather than listening, we retreat. We resist not because the advice is cruel, but because it asks us to change.
Over and over, the same pattern emerges. The conflict is not about the thing itself. It is about the self—its pride, its fears, its unwillingness to be examined. We fight hardest when our identity feels threatened, even if the trigger is trivial.
The real challenge, then, is learning to recognize when emotion has taken the steering wheel. To listen without immediately defending. To disagree without dehumanizing. To receive correction without hatred. These are difficult disciplines, but they strip countless battles of their power.
And perhaps this is what any watching intelligence would notice most of all—not our technology, not our arguments, but our hearts. How we wield judgment. Whether we choose mercy. Whether we walk carefully, aware that how we treat one another may be the clearest evidence of who we truly are.
“He has shown you, O man, what is good;
and what the Lord requires of you:
to act justly,
to love mercy,
and to walk humbly with your God.”
Micah 6:8