Edited by Jim McCrory, Tuesday 11 November 2025 at 14:38
On Tenderness
Someone said to me recently, “You know, the people in my town speak so harshly to one another.” He waited for my response, but what could I say? His words hung in the air like a question too heavy to answer. Harshness has become the common language of our age. Forwardness and loudness are rewarded; gentleness is dismissed as weakness. Soap operas and films thrive on aggressiveness, and even writing courses teach conflict and confrontation as the lifeblood of story. And yet, some of the finest works of literature — Gilead, The Remains of the Day, and others like them — draw their power not from shouting, but from stillness. They remind us that tenderness has its own quiet strength, that the human heart still recognizes virtue in action when it hears it.
But tenderness, it seems, has become a foreign tongue. The word itself rarely passes our lips anymore. It belongs to an older vocabulary, one spoken by shepherds and prophets, by those who knew that strength and gentleness are not enemies but kin. In Scripture, tenderness is not a fragile feeling; it is the steady pulse of divine love.
C.S. Lewis once said, “To love at all is to be vulnerable.” Tenderness is that vulnerability made holy; love that risks itself for the sake of another. Jesus embodied it. He entered our world not in armour but in swaddling cloth, not as a warrior but as a child. His hands, which could command storms, chose instead to touch the sick. His words, which could summon angels, chose instead to bless. “A bruised reed He will not break” (Matthew 12:20).
In the ancient world, a reed was a fragile plant, easily bent or crushed. Once bruised, it was usually thrown away; it had little value. The verse says Jesus, the Messiah, does not break the bruised reed, meaning He doesn’t discard those who are hurt, weak, or failing. Instead, He gently restores.
Paul wrote, “Clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience” (Colossians 3:12). In a world where harshness is fashionable, such clothing seems out of season. Yet it is the very fabric of Christ. To be tender is not to be naïve; it is to be brave enough to care in a calloused age. Henri Nouwen once said that the people who touch our lives most deeply are not those who fix our pain, but those who share it. That is tenderness, love that lingers beside suffering instead of solving it.
Our world sharpens its edges. It trains its tongue to cut, its stories to shout, its heroes to dominate. But tenderness is the rebellion of another kingdom, a quiet revolution of grace. It whispers where the world shouts, forgives where it is fashionable to condemn, and keeps reaching where others withdraw. It is the soft strength of God’s heart, burning steady beneath the noise.
Perhaps this is what we must recover; the courage to speak gently again. To answer harshness not with scorn, but with mercy. To remember that the Saviour who could have thundered chose instead to whisper: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened… for I am gentle and humble in heart” (Matthew 11:28–29).
But when tenderness fades, something greater is lost. The erosion of gentleness, compassion, and humility is not merely a symptom of modern life; it is a moral choice. Evil, in all its forms, does not erupt unbidden; it is chosen, often in small refusals to love. Each harsh word, each act of indifference, each moment we turn away from tenderness is a decision, a quiet yielding to the lesser good. The struggle between good and evil is not fought only in grand gestures, but in these hidden moments when the heart decides whether to wound or to heal.
Tenderness may be forgotten, but it is not lost. It lives wherever love still chooses to be kind. And perhaps, when the noise fades and the world grow tired of shouting, it will be tenderness that remains — steady as light, strong as grace, and forever the language of God.
On Tenderness
On Tenderness
Someone said to me recently, “You know, the people in my town speak so harshly to one another.” He waited for my response, but what could I say? His words hung in the air like a question too heavy to answer. Harshness has become the common language of our age. Forwardness and loudness are rewarded; gentleness is dismissed as weakness. Soap operas and films thrive on aggressiveness, and even writing courses teach conflict and confrontation as the lifeblood of story. And yet, some of the finest works of literature — Gilead, The Remains of the Day, and others like them — draw their power not from shouting, but from stillness. They remind us that tenderness has its own quiet strength, that the human heart still recognizes virtue in action when it hears it.
But tenderness, it seems, has become a foreign tongue. The word itself rarely passes our lips anymore. It belongs to an older vocabulary, one spoken by shepherds and prophets, by those who knew that strength and gentleness are not enemies but kin. In Scripture, tenderness is not a fragile feeling; it is the steady pulse of divine love.
C.S. Lewis once said, “To love at all is to be vulnerable.” Tenderness is that vulnerability made holy; love that risks itself for the sake of another. Jesus embodied it. He entered our world not in armour but in swaddling cloth, not as a warrior but as a child. His hands, which could command storms, chose instead to touch the sick. His words, which could summon angels, chose instead to bless. “A bruised reed He will not break” (Matthew 12:20).
In the ancient world, a reed was a fragile plant, easily bent or crushed. Once bruised, it was usually thrown away; it had little value. The verse says Jesus, the Messiah, does not break the bruised reed, meaning He doesn’t discard those who are hurt, weak, or failing. Instead, He gently restores.
Paul wrote, “Clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience” (Colossians 3:12). In a world where harshness is fashionable, such clothing seems out of season. Yet it is the very fabric of Christ. To be tender is not to be naïve; it is to be brave enough to care in a calloused age. Henri Nouwen once said that the people who touch our lives most deeply are not those who fix our pain, but those who share it. That is tenderness, love that lingers beside suffering instead of solving it.
Our world sharpens its edges. It trains its tongue to cut, its stories to shout, its heroes to dominate. But tenderness is the rebellion of another kingdom, a quiet revolution of grace. It whispers where the world shouts, forgives where it is fashionable to condemn, and keeps reaching where others withdraw. It is the soft strength of God’s heart, burning steady beneath the noise.
Perhaps this is what we must recover; the courage to speak gently again. To answer harshness not with scorn, but with mercy. To remember that the Saviour who could have thundered chose instead to whisper: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened… for I am gentle and humble in heart” (Matthew 11:28–29).
But when tenderness fades, something greater is lost. The erosion of gentleness, compassion, and humility is not merely a symptom of modern life; it is a moral choice. Evil, in all its forms, does not erupt unbidden; it is chosen, often in small refusals to love. Each harsh word, each act of indifference, each moment we turn away from tenderness is a decision, a quiet yielding to the lesser good. The struggle between good and evil is not fought only in grand gestures, but in these hidden moments when the heart decides whether to wound or to heal.
Tenderness may be forgotten, but it is not lost. It lives wherever love still chooses to be kind. And perhaps, when the noise fades and the world grow tired of shouting, it will be tenderness that remains — steady as light, strong as grace, and forever the language of God.