The other day, I saw a woman ask for help in a group I’m part of. She was leaving a toxic marriage, starting over with nothing, and simply asked if anyone had an old mattress or stove to spare. Her message was raw and humble — the kind of thing you write when you’ve reached the end of your pride and are just hoping someone sees you.
The first response she got was this:
“May God give you the strength and provide the help that you need during this tough time.”
And I froze for a second, because that right there is what I mean when I talk about spiritual bypassing. It’s the way people use faith to step around discomfort. It sounds compassionate, but it’s really avoidance dressed up as holiness.
That woman didn’t need divine strength. She needed a stove. Maybe a blanket. A small start. What she got instead was a prayer-shaped deflection — words that allow the responder to feel kind without being touched by the reality of her struggle.
I know that kind of response too well. I used to give it. Back when I believed that saying “I’ll pray for you” was a form of care. I thought I was doing something, sending love in God’s direction on someone’s behalf. But I see it differently now. Prayer was often a way of protecting myself from the rawness of another person’s pain. I could sound gentle and concerned while staying safe and uninvolved.
That’s the problem with bypassing: it looks like empathy but keeps you at a distance. It allows you to feel moral while doing nothing practical. And in the end, it makes suffering lonelier, because the person reaching out doesn’t just feel abandoned — they feel unseen.
It’s strange how religion can train people to disconnect from their own instinct to help. To replace action with words, responsibility with faith. To say “God will provide” when maybe you could.
These days, I believe in something much quieter but more honest: if someone needs help and I can help, I should. If I can’t, I can at least acknowledge their reality without hiding behind a verse or a prayer. Real compassion is uncomfortable sometimes. It asks for time, presence, sacrifice — not just words.
That woman didn’t need strength from God. She needed solidarity from humans.
And that’s what I think most of us need — less “thoughts and prayers,” more hands and hearts that actually show up.