Where Love Becomes a Line

I was in conversation with a friend about what is happening in the world. We were trying to understand more than to argue.

ICE came up.
The Pope came up.
The question of who can belong to what came up.

At some point, the word category entered the conversation.

She said this wasn’t about categories.
She said it was about love.
That there is a moral imperative.
That as a Catholic, one should come from love.

I noticed a subtle shift in me — not defensively, just quietly.

Love was being named as universal,
and yet I perceived a line being drawn.

If you loved, you wouldn’t do this.
If you loved correctly, you wouldn’t be that.
If you were truly following Christ, you would not participate.

I didn’t feel confused.
I felt careful.

I noticed how easily love can become a test without meaning to.
How quickly it can turn into a measure.
How invisible the line becomes once it is called love.

I noticed how often certainty borrows the language of love.
How familiar that move felt.
Not new — just repeating.

I thought about how questioning the norms of a group often feels disloyal,
even when the questioning comes from care.

I noticed how uncomfortable it is to ask,
“What does love require here?”
when others already feel sure they know the answer.

I found myself wondering about the ICE agent.
Not about their actions—
but about what it would mean to love them.

The question didn’t feel provocative.
It felt unfinished.

I reached for an analogy and didn’t keep it.
Explanations appear quickly when moral urgency rises.
Necessity is named too easily.
I wasn’t ready to accept any of it.

I didn’t arrive at a conclusion.
What stayed with me was a pause.

A sense that love was present,
but not settled.

Perhaps what stays with me most is not an answer,
but an invitation:
What is being asked of love in this moment?
I’m still listening.