But why does God love us?

Most of the time, I assess myself—my actions, my emotions, my tendencies. I talk to myself about my faults. I reason. I reprimand. I pause and reflect, especially when I’ve hurt people because of my words or actions, often in moments of anger.

Over the years, after observing myself and others, I’ve realized something deeply uncomfortable: we often project our weaknesses, wounds, and disappointments onto others. Instead of confronting what’s broken within, we blame. We become defensive, quick to judge, eager to shift responsibility.

We all carry our habits—some we’re proud of, some we try to hide. We were raised differently, formed by families, wounds, cultures. Some people have become confrontational, while others, like me, have grown evasive. Some are impatient. Some act all-knowing. Others fall into the trap of self-righteousness. Truth be told, we all have bad sides. Many of them.

So then, this haunting question presses at my heart:

Why does God love us?
Why does He love a person who doesn’t even give Him proper reverence?
Why does He remain faithful to those who never pray, never go to church, never truly surrender?
What have we done to deserve a God who died for us—and still stays with us?

When I look at myself, I wonder: What have I done to be called holy, a temple of the living God? Isn’t it all too much? Is God asking too much—or giving too much?

And yet the truth is this: we were not loved because we were worthy. We are worthy because we were loved first.

St. Paul writes in Romans 5:8, “God proves His love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
This is the radical mystery of grace: we do not earn God’s love—we receive it as a gift.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church (CCC) echoes this:

“God’s love is everlasting… It is free and has no cause outside of Himself.” (CCC 220)

This means that God loves not because we are lovable, but because He is love (cf. 1 John 4:8). His love remains—even when ours falters.

He loves the irreverent. The inconsistent. The sinner.
Because His mercy is not a reward for good behavior—it is a rescue for the lost.

Jesus said, “I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners” (Luke 5:32).
Just like the father in the Parable of the Prodigal Son, God runs toward us while we are still far off—dirty, broken, undeserving—and throws His arms around us anyway.

St. John Paul II affirms this in Dives in Misericordia:

“God’s mercy is more powerful than our sins, more powerful than all human misery.”

And when we ask, “What have I done to deserve a God who died for me?” the answer is humbling: Nothing.
That is what makes it grace.

“By grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not from you; it is the gift of God—not from works, so no one may boast.” (Ephesians 2:8–9)

And yet… even in our unworthiness, God chooses to dwell in us.

“Do you not know that you are a temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?” (1 Corinthians 3:16)

Through Baptism, the Church teaches, we become “new creatures,” “partakers of the divine nature,” “members of Christ” (CCC 1265). Not by our perfection—but by His initiative.

It is overwhelming. It is too much. But that’s what divine love is: lavish, abundant, and freely given.

“What great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!” (1 John 3:1)

And Pope Francis, in Evangelii Gaudium, reminds us:

“God never tires of forgiving us; we are the ones who tire of seeking his mercy.” (EG 3)

So when I look at myself—with my flaws, fears, inconsistencies—I still ask: Why does God love me?
And faith responds:
Because that is who He is.
He is love.
He is mercy.
He is Emmanuel—God with us—even when we are not with Him.

And so I write. I confess. I try again.
Because even in my weakness, Christ in me is still enough.

Repentance stock photo by Vecteezy