At a church event for seniors, activities and games were organized for guests, with lunch, snacks and prayer time. To the surprise of all, one woman’s voice echoed throughout the afternoon, complaining she didn’t get anything she wanted, didn’t feel well treated, and was bitterly disappointed. It was hard on volunteers and other guests, who spontaneously assured the organizers it was a wonderful event and not to be discouraged by the angry woman.

But why was she angry? The organizers scoured their work searching for flaws. They felt bad, then wondered if they’d volunteered only to make themselves feel good. It’s hard not to let someone’s anger and unhappiness get under your skin. The complaints start ringing in your ears, and you hear an underlying refrain: “You do this only to feel good about yourself. You owe me, because I make you feel good. You’re not doing it well enough. You’re letting me down.”

We recognize this kind of unspoken refrain, whether we’re the disappointed or the disappointing one. There’s a sense that if we don’t serve a function or fulfill a purpose, we are nothing; that we have no value in ourselves, but only for what we can do or pay.  It plays on our deep inner need to be loved—unconditionally—irrespective of anything we do or give. When that need of unconditional love is chronically unmet, it can bend and twist us in all sorts of ways, ultimately keeping others away while our (rejected) inner selves become encased in lead.

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This may be one of the dangers of artificial intelligence. Like a dog that never sleeps, it offers itself as a constant, subservient companion, available on demand with always the same regard for us. Many of us have a deep abiding sense of non-worth amid a chronically unmet need of unconditional love. We’re susceptible to being fooled by the illusion of having our deep emotional need met.

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How can the lost truth of ourselves ever be touched and brought to life, the truth proclaimed constantly in both Old and New Testaments, in every liturgy and prayer: We are loved by God because we are loved by God, our infinite value and dignity based on nothing we do or achieve?

As St. Athanasius observed, when we forgot to look up to God, God came down to the low place we’d fixed our gaze on. God doesn’t stay out of reach, but puts Himself where we are, even if that place is hellish. For this he “emptied himself,” because of our emptiness without him.

Like a tall dad bending to feel the pouting child’s tears moistening his face, our Maker knows where He must be. Yet even so, it’s difficult if not impossible for us to let him in, letting go of our pout to feel his kiss, or silencing our loud complaining voice to hear His kind words. Perhaps this is why pride has been seen as the deadliest vice of all. As a friend of mine remarked, we forget to be a child of God, and find it hard to give up being God.

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What can reach our aching heart, through the loud complaints? As we see often in the Gospels, Jesus’ offered touch of healing can show us our need in a way we can accept, beyond our fear and shame. It gives us room to realize we’re not whole, even that we’re sinful, because we discover this in receiving His touch, unto life not unto condemnation or despair. Our broken hearts recognize the touch of unconditional love. Even so He touches the paralyzed man after four friends break through the ceiling: first, “Child, your sins are forgiven”; then, “walk.”

Like the searing pain of a sprained ankle, even our loud complaining voice has a purpose. It strives and strains to be heard, although it doesn’t know what it needs to say, to whom it needs to say it, or why it needs to be heard. It just needs. Fairness does not answer this unfair need. Logic and reason do not answer. Unconditional, generous, self-giving, unfair love answers: the kind that gives the late-afternoon laborer the same wage as the early-morning laborer, the kind that doesn’t ask for the inheritance back from the arrogant son but spends a fortune on his welcome-home celebration, the kind that forgives even those who didn’t acknowledge their guilt. This splendid prodigality answers what the heart longs for – and in the process, wakens the heart to its own long-forgotten generous, self-giving, forgiving nature.