Faces are turned downward, not in shame or in prayer, but toward glowing screens. Phones have become companions, guides, distractions, and perhaps even crutches. Some watch videos, others scroll through newsfeeds, some read webtoons or play games. The flicker of screens casts a faint blue light onto young and old alike, and for a moment, it feels as though no one truly sees the other. Eye contact is rare. Smiles are almost extinct. In this ocean of humanity, there is isolation. The paradox of being surrounded by thousands and yet feeling alone is real and sharp. As I stand amid the crowd, I wonder where God is in all this. And more urgently, I wonder if we even notice Him when we’re in such a hurry.
There is a peculiar sadness that clings to the silence of the morning commute. It is not the kind of sadness that makes you cry—it is deeper, settled in the bones, like a weight one has grown used to carrying. You feel it in the way people lean against the train doors with eyes closed—not sleeping, but trying to escape. You hear it in the absence of music, in the quiet sighs, and the way people’s shoulders slope slightly inward, like shields against the world. These are not bad people. They are diligent, determined, and responsible. But they are also tired. Not only from lack of sleep but from the weariness of a life that demands too much and offers too little in return.
Jesus said, “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul?” (Mark 8:36). That verse hums quietly in my heart as I watch the crowd. Here we are, pursuing success, stability, status, even survival. Yet in our pursuit, we have lost the capacity to look up. To notice each other. To breathe. To hear God. Perhaps it is not that God is silent, but that we are too loud on the inside to hear Him. Or maybe it is our screens that have become the louder voice.
There is nothing sinful about hard work or catching the morning train. In fact, Scripture encourages diligence: “Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men” (Colossians 3:23). But what happens when our labor becomes an idol, when the commute becomes a daily offering at the altar of ambition and cultural expectation? When life becomes so full of doing that there is no room left for being? Being still. Being aware. Being present to God.
I imagine Jesus walking through this morning rush. Not hurried, not anxious, not absorbed by a screen. He moves with intention, but also with compassion. He notices the woman with tired eyes, the student hunched over in fear of another exam, the elderly man gripping the rail with trembling hands. He sees each one. While the rest of us keep walking, Jesus stops. His eyes lift. His heart opens. Because He never treated crowds as obstacles—He saw them as sheep without a shepherd (Matthew 9:36).
The Gospels are filled with scenes of crowds, but never with silence. The crowds pressed in on Jesus. They shouted. They wept. They reached out. And Jesus responded. He fed them, healed them, taught them. He had compassion. But here in this rush hour, the crowd says nothing. And I ask myself, are we pressing into Jesus, or just pressing forward? Are we reaching out in need, or simply gripping our phones tighter?
Silence, in itself, is not evil. In fact, Scripture often honors it. “In quietness and in trust shall be your strength,” says Isaiah 30:15. And yet, this silence is different. It is not pregnant with trust. It feels more like a blanket pulled over the noise we dare not name. It is a silence born from disconnection, not contemplation. It is the silence of routine that has forgotten the wonder of living. The silence of a heart that no longer expects anything sacred to happen between home and work.
And yet, God is still here. Even in this rush. Even in this silence. Even when no one is looking up. “Where can I go from Your Spirit? Where can I flee from Your presence?” asks the Psalmist. “If I make my bed in the depths, You are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn... even there Your hand will guide me” (Psalm 139:7–10). There is no place—not even the crowded, gray platforms of a Seoul subway—that is beyond His reach.
So what would it look like to redeem the morning rush hour? What would it look like for a Christian to walk among these crowds with awareness of God's nearness? Not in arrogance, not in self-righteous detachment, but in quiet attentiveness. What if we prayed instead of scrolling? What if we looked up and offered someone a smile, even if it goes unreturned? What if we whispered Scripture to ourselves, not to show off, but to nourish our dry spirits? Could we turn this daily walk into an act of worship?
Perhaps this is our mission field. Not across oceans or behind pulpits, but here—in the rush, in the silence, among the hurried and heavy-laden. We may not be able to stop the trains or slow down the flow of the crowd. But we can bring Christ into it. Into our posture. Into our gaze. Into our thoughts. Into our interactions.
I think of the woman with the issue of blood who pressed through the crowd just to touch the hem of Jesus’ garment (Mark 5:25–34). No one else noticed her. They were jostling, rushing, unbothered. But she believed that in the press, there was still a presence. And when she touched Him, He felt it. He stopped. He turned around. “Who touched Me?” he asked—not because He didn’t know, but because He wanted her to know that she was seen. The same Christ walks with us now. And maybe, just maybe, He is asking, Who will touch Me in this crowd today?
Faith is not always about grand moments. Sometimes it’s about choosing to believe that God is with us in the monotony, that grace can descend in the ordinary, and that the Holy Spirit can whisper even on a crowded train. It’s about believing that the silence is not empty. It’s filled with invitation.
There is a peculiar gift hidden in this daily ritual. The gift of time. Though fast-paced, the commute often gives us thirty minutes or more where we are physically confined but mentally open. What if we gave that time to God? What if we dedicated our mornings not just to getting to work, but to seeking His face? David wrote, “In the morning, O Lord, You hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before You and wait expectantly” (Psalm 5:3). How different would our days be if they began not with anxiety or mindless scrolling, but with expectancy?
We cannot control the silence of others. We cannot force the crowd to wake up to the presence of God. But we can be different. We can be still inside even as the train sways. We can be alive in the Spirit even as the city speeds past us. We can become carriers of peace in a world that has forgotten how to breathe.
And if one day, someone looks up and sees your eyes, peaceful and not panicked, calm and not cold—they may wonder what you carry. And you will have no need to shout or to preach. Your life, your posture, your presence will speak. You will be a signpost in the morning silence. A living epistle read by all men (2 Corinthians 3:2). A reminder that even in the rush, God is with us.
So the next time you step into the subway, or join the tide of the walking silent, remember that you are not lost in the crowd. You are known. You are called. You are sent—not far, but near. Sent to bring awareness to the unnoticed. Sent to touch the hem of Christ’s robe once more. Sent to awaken your own soul before the world begins its demands.
And maybe, just maybe, as you carry Christ into your commute, someone else’s silence will break. Not with noise, but with wonder. And heaven, though unseen, will touch the morning rush hour in Korea.
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