Every living thing has an origin story.
Some begin with a plan. Others begin with a crisis. And some begin the way the most meaningful things often do: as a quiet inner prompting that refuses to go away.
The Centre of Love was born in such a moment.
At our very first official gathering on May 15th, 2022, in a living room full of people spanning generations, surrounded by tears, smiles, hugs, a baby, and a palpable sense of openness, we came together to mark the beginning of something none of us could fully define yet. There was already a feeling in the room that this was not merely an event, but the unfolding of something organic.
Our mission, then as now, was simple and profound: to support one another in the cultivation of wisdom, healing, and love. Beneath that mission sat an even deeper recognition — that we humans are one family, that everything is interconnected, and that love is the connective tissue binding us all together.
But how did the Centre of Love begin?
From my perspective, the story took shape during the years surrounding the pandemic. Like many people, I was already carrying concerns about the state of the world: climate instability, ecological degradation, endless wars, political corruption, increasing polarization, and the growing sense that much of what we call civilization is far more fragile than we like to admit. Then COVID-19 arrived and seemed to intensify everything. It magnified fear, division, and uncertainty. It exposed fractures that were already there.
As I moved through that period, I began asking myself a question that felt both personal and universal: What is my role in all of this? In a world so full of anger, confusion, and separation, what can I do that is genuinely helpful?
An old friend of mine, Mark, often repeated this cryptic piece of advice: “You’ve got to ask, Ollie.”
Whenever he said this, I would always think: Ask who? And for what?
Of course, Mark meant that I should ask the One: the Great Mystery, God, Nature, Spirit, Source, the Universe — whatever name feels right.
Ask the Intelligence that moves through all things. And most importantly, ask sincerely.
I had never given this advice much thought or credulity. My concept of God, at that time, was of something impersonal and impartial and as such, I had never really prayed to or asked It for anything.
Driven desperate by the state of the world, I finally took Mark’s advice and started asking in earnest.
I asked in meditation. I asked while journaling. I asked while running. I asked in stillness and in altered states. I asked the questions that have followed human beings for centuries: Who am I? What am I here for? What am I supposed to do? What can I do?
Eventually, I received an answer.
One day, while meditating and writing in my backyard, something unexpected happened. My hand began to move across the page with a clarity that felt both foreign and deeply familiar. In response to the question “Who am I?” the words that came were these: Bringer of wholeness.
It startled me. I had never consciously thought those words before. And yet when I read them, they landed with the unmistakable ring of truth. It felt less like discovering something new and more like remembering something I had once known, something deeply familiar.
Still, a title is not the same thing as a map.
So I kept asking: What does that mean? How do I bring wholeness? Where do I begin?
The answer that came back was immediate and humbling: Start with the man in the mirror.
Heal your wounds. Mend what has been broken. Rebuild the bridges you have burned. Become more whole yourself — and then, wherever you go, become a builder of bridges. But do it all from a place of love. Not ego. Not performance. Not image. Love.
Not merely to do loving things, but to let love become the motivating force behind thought and action. To lead with love. To wake up in love with life. To sow seeds of love wherever possible.
That sounds beautiful when written on a page. It is harder in practice.
Anyone who has tried to live this way knows the pattern: sometimes you touch that deeper current and it feels effortless. You live open-hearted, responsive, aligned. And then, just as suddenly, you fall back into judgment, resentment, defensiveness, and old habits.
At one point, after one such lapse back into old patterns, I remember inwardly protesting: This is impossible. How can anyone make love the center of every thought and action?
The answer that came back was merciful: You are already doing it. Forget perfection. Progress is the path. Stay on it. Keep going.
The invitation was never to become flawless. It was to return, again and again. To fall out of love and then jump right back in. To keep putting one foot in front of the other on this narrow, lofty path.
Eventually, after continuing to ask for direction, the inner instruction became much more specific.
Build me a church.
That was not the answer I expected.
A church? Why a church?
The response was clear: To establish a spiritual community; to spread good news; to sow seeds of love and unity in a time marked by fear and division; to create a space where people could help one another, teach one another, and learn from one another.
And the invitation was radically inclusive.
Everyone was welcome.
Vaccinated or unvaccinated. Gay, straight, or somewhere in between. Male, female, beyond, or undefined. Whatever your background, beliefs, wounds, hopes, or doubts —all are invited.
That raised another question: What would such a church worship?
The answer: light, love, and life.
That was enough for me.
Then came the next lesson. I asked how I was supposed to build this thing, and the answer I received overturned the whole premise: You do not build the church. You find the others, and the church will build itself.
So I began by sharing the idea with people close to me — my wife, Candace, and my dear friend, Kressa. Their response was overwhelmingly supportive.
And, to be honest, that scared me.
Because now that I had spoken it aloud, it was no longer just an idea. It became real. Suddenly it had gravity.
My response, for a while, was hesitation. Delay. Excuses. I told myself I was too busy. I doubted whether I was qualified. I questioned whether anything meaningful could come of it. I shrank back from the scale of the task.
And still, the call remained.
One day, while feeling particularly low, I opened my journal to practice gratitude — something I do whenever I need to remember the abundance already present in my life. I started by giving thanks for family, friends, blessings, and grace. And as I often do, I ended with something like: I am your servant, oh Great Teacher; show me what you would have done, and I will do it.
Then the page turned, and another message came.
What about the church?
Were my instructions unclear? You said you would serve. The guidance has already been given. Proceed with the work. Support is coming. But first you must begin.
So I began.
And that first gathering was proof that support had already arrived.
The Centre of Love did not emerge from certainty, perfection, or institutional ambition. It emerged from longing — from the desire to respond to a fractured world with sincerity, humility, and heart. It emerged from the conviction that love is not sentimental fluff, but a real force of integration and unification. A way of seeing. A way of being. A practice of returning to what is most essential in ourselves and one another.
That day in my living room four years ago, it felt as though something was born — not fully formed, but alive. A beginning. A seed.
And that is still what the Centre of Love is.
Not a final conclusion but a living, evolving question.
How should we live in times of fear and fragmentation?
Love is still the answer.