Mysterious God

If God could be predicted like a chemical reaction, He wouldn’t be God anymore. Think about it—when scientists mix hydrogen and oxygen, they already know what will happen. Add fire, and you get water. There’s a pattern, a formula, and the result is always the same. But God doesn’t fit that kind of pattern. He doesn’t follow our formulas or behave according to our logic. If He did, He’d be something we could control, something we could fully explain—and that would make Him human, not divine. The God we meet in Scripture isn’t like that. He is mystery and majesty wrapped in wonder. He doesn’t fit into our categories, and He always exceeds the limits of our understanding.

To think of God like a chemical compound is to expect predictability. But that’s not how He works. You can’t mix a little prayer, a little faith, and a little good behavior and expect a guaranteed outcome. God doesn’t run on human equations. He is not an experiment we can repeat until we get the same results. As He said in Isaiah 55:8–9, “My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways My ways. As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts.”

That verse always humbles me. It’s not telling us to stop trying to understand God—it’s reminding us that our understanding will always have limits. We’re people made from dust trying to comprehend the Creator of galaxies. We talk in the language of minutes and days, but He operates in eternity. We think in cause and effect, but He sees everything—beginning, middle, and end—all at once. So even when life doesn’t add up, He already knows how it will.

Remember Job? He wanted answers. He wanted to know why his life had fallen apart. If God was just, why all this pain? Why the loss? But instead of giving Job a scientific explanation, God asked, “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?” (Job 38:4). It’s as if God was saying, “You can’t understand everything I do because you weren’t there when I designed everything that is.” That wasn’t arrogance—it was truth. God’s mystery isn’t a problem to be solved; it’s a reality to be reverenced.

We humans crave predictability. We want life to make sense. We like to know how, when, and why things will happen. But God keeps surprising us. He chooses the unexpected. He makes shepherds into kings. He gives children to barren women. He speaks through donkeys and crowns the least likely people. When Israel was waiting for a mighty warrior to save them, God sent a baby born in a manger. And when His followers thought victory would come through strength, He revealed it through a cross. Everything about God challenges our craving for neat, predictable patterns.

That doesn’t mean God is chaotic. It just means He’s not bound by our systems. His mystery isn’t confusion—it’s sovereignty. When we can’t see what He’s doing, it doesn’t mean He’s lost control. It means He’s working on a level we can’t yet understand. In chemistry, an unpredictable reaction is considered unstable. But with God, unpredictability doesn’t mean instability—it means He’s God. He doesn’t follow the rules because He wrote them. He’s not governed by time because He created it. He’s not trapped by logic because logic itself exists because of Him. As Colossians 1:17 says, “He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together.”

That’s the beauty of faith. Faith only makes sense in the presence of mystery. If God were predictable, faith wouldn’t even be necessary. We wouldn’t need to trust—we’d just calculate. Faith is what bridges the gap between what we see and what we don’t understand. Abraham didn’t know where he was going, but he followed anyway. Moses didn’t know what would happen next, but he obeyed anyway. And when God introduced Himself to Moses as “I AM,” that name alone declared mystery. Not “I was.” Not “I will be.” Just “I AM.” A name that defies time, logic, and limitation. A name that simply is.

Whenever we try to make God predictable, we end up making idols. Idols are manageable gods—easy to understand, easy to control. The Israelites built a golden calf because they wanted something visible, something that wouldn’t surprise them. But idols always disappoint because they are small reflections of our fears and limits. The living God, on the other hand, asks for faith, not control. He invites worship that bows before mystery.

There’s a tension we live in as believers: we can know God, but we can never fully know Him. Paul said it perfectly in Romans 11:33, “Oh, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments, and His ways past finding out!” Paul had incredible spiritual insight, yet even he admitted that God’s wisdom was too deep to measure. The more we know God, the more we realize how much more there is to know. And that’s not frustrating—it’s awe-inspiring.

Even in Jesus, mystery remains. He was fully God and fully human. How does that even work? We can’t explain it, yet we believe it. The incarnation doesn’t make logical sense, but it makes redemptive sense. The resurrection defies natural law, but it fulfills divine promise. The greatest works of God are wrapped in paradox—strength revealed through weakness, life born through death, glory shining through suffering. It’s in those contradictions that we often find God most near.

Let’s be honest—it’s hard to accept mystery when life hurts. When prayers seem unanswered and things fall apart, we want clarity. We want God to make sense. But He doesn’t give us formulas; He gives us Himself. He doesn’t hand out explanations; He offers presence. When Joseph was betrayed by his brothers, thrown into a pit, and forgotten in prison, nothing made sense. But years later, looking back, he could say, “You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good.” The same God who seemed silent was working all along.

Mystery teaches humility. It keeps us from putting God under our microscope. It reminds us that we’re not the ones in control. When we stop demanding to understand everything, we make room for wonder. David said it well in Psalm 139:6, “Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain it.” That wasn’t frustration—it was worship. It was his way of saying, “God, You are beyond me, and that’s exactly why I worship You.”

Our world doesn’t like mystery. We want proof, data, and answers. Science moves forward by solving the unknown, but faith grows by embracing it. We don’t worship because we’ve figured God out—we worship because He is beyond figuring out. As the mystics used to say, to know God is to enter into “the cloud of unknowing.” It’s to walk by faith, not by sight. When we allow mystery to exist, our souls can rest even when our minds can’t.

This is why Jesus could sleep in the storm. The disciples panicked, but Jesus rested. They were governed by sight; He was grounded in trust. He knew who His Father was. That’s the kind of faith mystery produces—not fear, but peace. Even the cross, which looked like a failure, held the greatest victory. The darkest moment in history became the brightest light of redemption. God’s mystery is never empty—it’s full of meaning, even when we can’t see it yet.

If God were predictable, prayer would be pointless and worship would lose its wonder. But because He is mystery, prayer becomes a conversation of faith, and worship becomes an act of awe. When we bow our heads, we’re not reciting formulas—we’re talking to a living, unpredictable, yet faithful God. When we lift our hands, we’re surrendering to a love that surpasses understanding. The mystery of God isn’t a wall to keep us out; it’s an ocean that invites us deeper.

Paul said, “Now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face” (1 Corinthians 13:12). Right now, we know only in part, but one day, everything will make sense. Until then, we live between knowing and not knowing, between mystery and revelation. And that’s okay. We don’t need to solve God to trust Him. We just need to remember that the One who holds the universe also holds us.

So maybe we should stop wishing God would be easier to understand. Let’s actually thank Him that He isn’t. His mystery means there will always be more of Him to experience, more of His grace to discover, more of His love to explore. A predictable god is a small god, one made in our image. But the God who made stars, who commands oceans, and who speaks in silence—that God is worth trusting. He can’t be explained, but He can be known. He can’t be predicted, but He can be loved.

Walking with God means befriending mystery. It means learning that uncertainty isn’t the enemy of faith—it’s the soil where faith grows. When life doesn’t make sense, when the answers don’t come, and when we’re left wondering, God’s mystery becomes our anchor. We may not understand Him, but we can be sure of one thing: He is good. He is faithful. And that is enough.

If God could be explained, He’d be as small as our thoughts. If He could be predicted, He’d be as limited as our logic. But because He cannot, He remains God—the Eternal, the Infinite, the Unsearchable One. His mystery doesn’t hide Him from us; it reveals Him to us. Because only the mysterious can truly be divine.

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My name or My title

A few days ago, I found myself within earshot of conversation that left a lingering impression on me. A colleague of mine, visibly perturbed, was grumbling over an awkward interaction she’d had with her best friend—someone she had known since childhood. Apparently, during their most recent conversation, she called her by her given name, just as she had done for years. But this time, it did not land well. Her friend, now with a new professional title, took offense. The absence of “Dr.” or “Rev.” before her name was perceived as disrespect. My colleague wasn’t just upset; she was bewildered. “I’ve known her since we were little,” she said, “How can calling her by her name suddenly become an insult?”

As I listened, I felt a familiar tension rising within me—one I have often confronted in my own heart. This small incident opened a window to a larger conversation about identity, recognition, and the weight we place on titles. What are titles, really? How do they shape the way we see ourselves and how others see us? And as someone striving to live faithfully in the way of Jesus, I couldn’t help but ask: What would Jesus have done?

Titles are not new to us. Throughout history, people have been identified by markers that set them apart—titles of nobility, offices of leadership, religious roles, academic achievements. In our contemporary society, titles are everywhere: doctor, professor, bishop, engineer, honorable, director, reverend. They signify accomplishment, position, status. In many ways, they serve a valuable function: they organize social interactions, communicate respect, and acknowledge effort. Yet, they also have a shadow side. Titles can distance us from the heart of who we are, especially when they begin to define our entire sense of worth or when they become tools of exclusion.

In my own life, I have worn a few titles. I have been called Reverend, Pastor, Chaplain, Lecturer, and even simply “Madam.” At first, I resisted them. Coming from a background where leadership was often associated with power and where women in ministry were few, I was uncomfortable with the weight these titles carried. But over time, I came to accept that titles, when rightly held, can be instruments of stewardship. They can honor the journey, the discipline, the sacrifice behind them. After all, I didn’t stumble into my roles—I studied, prayed, cried, and persevered. So yes, when someone uses a title to recognize that, it can be affirming.

And yet, I am also wary. Because I know the temptation to become the title. I know the subtle pride that whispers, “You deserve to be treated differently now.” I know the ache of feeling unseen when someone forgets or misuses it. I’ve had moments, embarrassingly, when I introduced myself with a title not because it was helpful, but because I needed affirmation. I’ve also had moments when I felt small because someone refused to acknowledge the path I had walked.

But here is where the Gospel interrupts my ego.

Jesus, the Son of God, the Teacher of teachers, the Messiah, carried many divine and human titles. Yet, when we look closely at His life, He rarely insisted on them. He never demanded that others address Him as “Rabbi” or “Lord.” In fact, He often deflected those titles, choosing instead to identify Himself with the least and the lowly. He washed feet. He sat with children. He welcomed sinners. When His disciples argued about who among them was the greatest—essentially a debate about titles and rank—He brought a child before them and said, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all” (Mark 9:35).

That image convicts me. Jesus’ understanding of identity was not grounded in external titles but in an unshakeable relationship with the Father. “This is my beloved Son,” God declared at His baptism, before Jesus had performed any miracle, preached any sermon, or attracted any crowd. That identity—beloved of God—was the foundation of everything He did. What would Jesus have done if His best friend had called Him by His first name instead of “Messiah”? I imagine He would have smiled, perhaps even laughed, and continued in love. Because His ego didn’t need to be stroked; He knew who He was.

So what does that mean for me—and for us—when we’re caught in those awkward moments of feeling overlooked, unrecognized, or underappreciated?

First, it reminds me that it’s okay to appreciate titles. They can honor hard work. They can create clarity. They can even open doors. When used with humility, they can lift others, especially those from marginalized communities who have fought hard to be seen. For instance, I think of the women in my own community who were once told that leadership belonged to men. For us, being called “Reverend” is not just a personal triumph—it’s a communal one. It tells the younger girls watching that their dreams are valid.

But the problem comes when the title becomes the source of our identity, rather than a reflection of it. When we believe we are only worthy when we are “Doctor So-and-so,” we’ve lost something sacred. Identity rooted in titles is fragile. What happens when the position changes? When the degree no longer matters? When a newer, shinier title comes along and we’re forgotten? Anchoring our worth in these external markers is like building a house on sand.

I’ve seen both sides of this coin. I once visited a rural congregation where I was introduced with all my academic and ecclesial credentials. The people were respectful, yes—but they seemed intimidated. They struggled to speak freely, unsure of how to relate to me. Later, on another visit, I told the leader to simply introduce me as “Marble.” That day, the people laughed with me, prayed openly, and shared deeply. I realized that sometimes, my title was a bridge—but other times, it was a wall.

There’s also the danger of comparison. Titles can become a subtle form of competition, even among friends. Who has more letters behind their name? Who has been invited to speak at the most prestigious conference? Who commands the room? We start to rank ourselves and others not by the fruit of the Spirit, but by the badges we wear. In the process, friendships can sour, and community can fracture.

And yet, titles can also be redemptive. I recall a time when a young woman came to me after a talk. She said, “I didn’t know women could be theologians. Seeing you stand there as Reverend Dr. made me believe I could be one too.” In that moment, I saw the power of representation. The title wasn’t about ego—it was about legacy. It was about being a signpost, pointing others toward what is possible when God’s call is followed with courage.

So where do we go from here?

Perhaps we begin by holding titles lightly. By receiving them with gratitude, but not clutching them in fear. By using them to serve, not to dominate. By remembering that whether we are called “Doctor,” “Sister,” “Auntie,” or just by our name, our truest identity is found in Christ. We are beloved, chosen, called. No title can add to that, and no oversight can take it away.

When I think of my colleague and her childhood friend, I feel for both of them. For one, it must have felt like a betrayal, a failure to acknowledge her new journey. For the other, it felt like an unnecessary complication of what should have been a simple, loving interaction. Both responses are human. Both reflect deeper longings—to be seen, respected, and understood.

But perhaps there is a way to move forward that honors both the history and the present. Maybe it’s about remembering that behind every title is a person—complex, evolving, and beloved. Maybe it’s about learning when to use titles as a way of lifting others and when to lay them aside in the name of love. Maybe the question is not whether to use the title, but how to do so in a way that brings us closer rather than pushing us apart.

Jesus never rejected titles given to Him—Son of Man, Rabbi, Lord—but neither did He cling to them. He knew that identity is more than what people call you; it’s who you are when no one’s looking. It’s who you are when you serve in hidden places, when you pray in solitude, when you love without needing applause.

So what would Jesus have done?

He would have called His friend by name—with affection, without pretense, and with a heart so secure in the Father’s love that titles faded into the background. And maybe, just maybe, He would have invited her to the table, broken bread, and reminded her: “You are known. You are loved. And that is enough.”

As for me, I continue to wrestle, reflect, and relearn. I pray for the grace to carry my titles with humility, to receive correction without offense, and to be known not just by what I’ve achieved, but by how I’ve loved. After all, at the end of the journey, when the titles fall away and we stand before God, I imagine the only words that will matter are these: Well done, good and faithful servant.

 

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Evening rush hour

The evening rush hour is a strange blend of motion and stillness. Vehicles crawl along highways in dense formation, their red tail lights glowing like an unbroken ribbon of fire. Horns sound in discordant tones, some out of impatience, some out of warning, others perhaps as a cry of helplessness in a daily ritual that seems endless. People sit in cars, some alone, some with companions, but all locked in their own inner worlds as they make their way from work to home. Beneath this noisy procession, a quiet question often echoes: What does this hour mean in the eyes of God?

In our fast-paced world, the evening rush hour is one of its most visible expressions. It is a symbol of our labor, our commitments, our need for provision, our striving for security and significance. Each vehicle is a capsule of purpose and exhaustion. There is a father returning to a family that waits for him, or perhaps a family that has grown used to his late return. A young woman grips the wheel tightly, mentally calculating how much time she has left before her next obligation begins. A teenager stares listlessly at the passing scenery, headphones blocking out the world. We are all moving forward and yet longing for rest.

The Scriptures tell us, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). These words from Jesus speak directly into this weary, crawling commute. Rest is not merely physical cessation; it is peace of soul, a returning to the presence of God where anxiety is quieted and striving finds its limit. Yet, how often during the rush hour do we take the opportunity to turn our hearts toward Him? Often we are too absorbed, too irritated, too exhausted, or too distracted. But what if this congested hour could become sacred? What if it could become a place of encounter?

The Israelites wandered the desert for forty years, a journey meant to last a few weeks. Their wandering, like our evening traffic, was full of delays and frustration. Yet in that desert, God led them. He fed them with manna, gave them water from the rock, and shaded them with a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. In other words, He dwelled with them in the wandering. “The Lord your God who goes before you will Himself fight for you, just as He did for you in Egypt before your eyes” (Deuteronomy 1:30). Even in their disobedience, God was near.

We must ask ourselves, Do we believe that God is near us on this highway? Not metaphorically, but really, spiritually present in our car, in the lane beside us, in the breath we take while waiting for the light to turn. We are not alone. And that realization transforms the rush hour from a secular inconvenience to a spiritual opportunity.

Some people pray in their cars. Others listen to Scripture or sermons or Christian music. But more than outward practice, it is the inward orientation of the heart that matters most. Even silence, when offered to God, becomes a prayer. The Apostle Paul exhorts us, “Pray without ceasing” (1 Thessalonians 5:17), and while we often interpret this as a kind of spiritual hyperactivity, it can also be seen as a continual awareness of God’s presence—especially during times we least expect to feel it.

The evening rush hour is also a mirror. It reflects back to us the condition of our hearts. Are we anxious to get home because home is a place of comfort, or because we are fleeing the demands of the workplace? Are we angry at the driver who cut us off because of the violation itself, or because we already carry an unspoken burden that has found a scapegoat? This hour tests the fruits of the Spirit in us—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control (Galatians 5:22–23). How often we fail in this crucible, and yet how gracious God is to meet us there with new mercies.

Each car on the road holds a story, a life, a soul created in the image of God. Yet we often dehumanize one another in traffic. The man who swerves in front of us becomes “that jerk” instead of “that neighbor.” The woman in the slow lane becomes an object of frustration rather than a sister we are called to love. Jesus taught us that the second greatest commandment is to “love your neighbor as yourself” (Mark 12:31), and while we often imagine this neighbor as someone close to us emotionally or geographically, in truth it also includes the one who shares the road with us for ten fleeting minutes.

What if, during the rush hour, we practiced mercy? What if we gave space rather than demanded it? What if we allowed others to merge, not as a defeat, but as a kindness? What if we blessed rather than cursed the reckless driver, not out of naivety, but out of recognition that we too have acted rashly? The road is not just asphalt and metal—it is a living canvas for grace.

The evening is also a time of transition—from work to rest, from public performance to private reflection. It mirrors the deeper transition that God calls us to: from the toil of self-justification to the peace of Christ. “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength” (Isaiah 30:15). Yet the Israelites rejected this invitation, as we often do, choosing motion over stillness, striving over surrender. We chase the illusion that getting there faster will satisfy us, not realizing that God is more concerned with who we are in the journey than how fast we complete it.

Consider Jesus, who often withdrew to desolate places to pray (Luke 5:16). In His moments of highest demand, He chose stillness. He was never in a rush, yet He was never late. His pace was governed by the Father’s will, not by the pressure of circumstances. This is the model for the Christian life. We are called to a pace of grace, to a rhythm that honors both time and eternity.

Perhaps, in the evening rush hour, God is offering us a slow sanctification. Perhaps He is using delay as discipline, traffic as teaching, congestion as consecration. These moments that seem wasted are never wasted in the Kingdom of God. “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10) is not merely a call to silence, but to recognition—that God is God even when we are trapped on the freeway, and we are still His even when we feel invisible in the sea of cars.

The evening rush hour ends eventually. The lanes open up. The exits approach. The skyline changes. The wheels finally turn freely, and we arrive. But let us not miss what the journey offered. Let us not treat it merely as a necessary evil to be endured, but as a disguised invitation to deeper communion with the One who walks with us whether we are in a palace, a desert, or a traffic jam. The Christian life is not marked by uninterrupted ease, but by a continuous openness to the Spirit of God, who can turn even brake lights into beacons and even delay into divine appointment.

So tonight, when you find yourself in that slow-moving procession once again, do not merely long for it to end. Let it become your altar. Let the silence become your song. Let the stoplight become your teacher. And let your heart rest in the One who says, “I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20). Even on the highway. Even at dusk. Even when the world seems still and rushing all at once.

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Charlie Kirk

The news of Charlie Kirk being shot fills me with a deep ache, not just because of the tragedy itself but because of what it says about the state of our world. There is something profoundly unsettling about hearing that someone has been attacked for what they believe, especially in a place that should have been safe, a place that exists for reasoned dialogue, a place where minds are shaped and sharpened, not destroyed. Universities were once sacred spaces of dialogue, where ideas could clash but people remained safe. They were meant to be spaces where reason triumphed over rage, where differences of opinion did not need to become differences that drew blood. And yet here we are, in a world where disagreements seem to justify destruction, where conviction is met not with conversation but with violence. As a Christian, I cannot help but pause and grieve, not only for Kirk, his family, and those who love him, but for us as a people who have lost the ability to be slow to anger, to be quick to listen, and to love even those with whom we cannot agree.

The image of Jesus in the Gospels comes to my mind — seated among Pharisees who questioned Him, walking among crowds who sometimes misunderstood Him, even standing silent before Pilate who condemned Him. Jesus was not always agreed with, not always celebrated, and yet He never turned violent against those who opposed Him. He engaged their questions, He answered with truth, and when truth was rejected, He still chose to love. That is perhaps the hardest part of being a follower of Christ: to love when you are not loved back, to bless when you are cursed, to pray for those who persecute you, and to believe that reconciliation is better than retaliation.

Jesus said, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God” (Matthew 5:9). That blessing seems so distant now, so radical, as though it belongs to a different era. To make peace today feels costly, almost impossible, because it demands that we put down our weapons—whether those weapons are physical guns or the words we hurl like stones. It calls us to create a table big enough for disagreement without destruction, for conflict without hatred. And yet, it is the very way of Christ. He did not crush those who opposed Him. He did not annihilate His enemies. He stretched out His hands and let them drive nails through them. He absorbed the hostility of the world so that we might be reconciled to God—and to each other.

When someone is shot for their beliefs, it is not just one person’s life that is attacked—it is a wound against our collective humanity. It is a rejection of the very idea that we are capable of living together in difference, of being neighbors despite our convictions. It exposes how fragile our social fabric has become. We are called to a higher standard, a kingdom ethic, where we bear one another’s burdens and count others as more significant than ourselves. The apostle Paul’s words echo in my heart: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12:21). Evil can so easily become contagious, replicated in our reactions, duplicated in our decisions, multiplied in our anger. But goodness, too, can be contagious, if we dare to let it spread.

And yet, if we are honest, there is a temptation to respond in kind, to match violence with violence, hatred with hatred, outrage with outrage. It feels natural to want justice in the form of vengeance, to strike back so that the pain we feel is felt by the one who caused it. But then we remember the cross, where Christ interrupted the cycle and chose forgiveness over revenge. He said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). It is a prayer that feels almost impossible in the face of such injustice, and yet it is the very prayer that can heal a world like ours. It reminds us that the person who pulls the trigger is also broken, also in need of grace, also someone for whom Christ died.

This tragedy reminds me that the call of the gospel is not merely to believe but to embody—to become living testimonies of another way of being, a way that chooses dialogue over death, truth over terror, reconciliation over revenge. Perhaps if we truly believed that every human is made in the image of God, we would find a way to see even our opponents with compassion rather than contempt. Perhaps if we believed that Jesus’ words about loving our enemies were not mere poetic ideals but practical commands, we would find ways to hold space for disagreement without dehumanization.

I also cannot ignore the fact that there are spiritual forces at work in moments like this. The enemy thrives in division, delights in destruction, and rejoices when human beings turn on one another. The apostle Paul reminds us in Ephesians 6:12 that “our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” When we allow hatred to control our actions, we play into the hands of those very forces. As Christians, we are called to fight differently—not with weapons of war, but with weapons of the Spirit: prayer, love, truth, forgiveness.

Sitting with this news also makes me confront my own heart. How do I treat those who disagree with me? Am I patient with them, or do I silently cancel them in my mind? Do I pray for them, or do I secretly rejoice when they fail? These questions are uncomfortable because they reveal that violence is not just something out there — it can begin in here, in the small resentments and unspoken bitterness of the heart. Jesus warned that murder begins with anger (Matthew 5:21–22). So even as I grieve for what has happened to Kirk, I also repent of my own harshness, my own quickness to dismiss people rather than love them.

Perhaps the challenge of this moment is to reclaim what it means to be truly human, truly Christian. To be someone who refuses to let fear dictate how I treat others. To be someone who holds tightly to truth but never uses it as a weapon to wound. To be someone who believes that life is sacred, no matter whose life it is. In a time when we are constantly told to take sides, to choose a camp, to be outraged, maybe the most revolutionary thing we can do is to stand in the middle and refuse to hate.

I think of Jesus standing between the woman caught in adultery and the crowd ready to stone her. He stooped down, wrote on the ground, and then said, “Let him who is without sin be the first to throw a stone” (John 8:7). Slowly, the stones dropped. Slowly, the crowd dispersed. Slowly, a woman who was condemned found herself forgiven. That is what I pray for now: that the stones we hold—whether literal or metaphorical—might drop from our hands. That the cycle of retaliation might break. That mercy might triumph over judgment (James 2:13).

So I sit with this grief, with this anger, with this longing for something better, and I whisper a prayer: Lord, make us peacemakers again. Make us bold enough to speak truth without spilling blood, strong enough to defend life rather than destroy it, humble enough to listen without fear. Help us build classrooms, churches, homes, and public squares where people can disagree without dying for it. Help us remember that our enemy is not the person across from us but the hatred that divides us. And when we fail, remind us of the cross where love had the last word.

Because if we cannot do that, if we cannot reclaim the sacredness of life, if we cannot disagree without destroying each other, if we cannot forgive, if we cannot choose love even when it costs us everything—then what kind of world are we building for those who come after us?

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Know before you attack

There are moments in our walk with God when obedience does not mean charging forward blindly, but rather waiting, watching, discerning. I have often mistaken faith for haste, assuming that once God has spoken, the only next step is immediate action. But then I read again the story in Numbers 13, where God tells Moses, “Send some men to explore the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelites” (Numbers 13:1–2). It strikes me that God, who had already promised them the land, still instructed them to first know what lay ahead.

Why would God, who could see the end from the beginning, command a reconnaissance mission? He already knew what was in the land. He knew the people, the cities, the obstacles, the fruit. He knew the giants and the walls. But perhaps the exercise was not for His information, but for theirs. Perhaps God wanted the people to see what they were really up against—not to frighten them, but to prepare them. Because knowing the enemy, knowing the terrain, and knowing the cost is part of walking in wisdom.

Sometimes I have rushed into battles I wasn’t ready for, simply because I knew God was on my side. And yes, He is faithful, but He also calls us to wisdom. Jesus echoed this principle in Luke 14:31: “Or suppose a king is about to go to war against another king. Won’t he first sit down and consider whether he is able with ten thousand men to oppose the one coming against him with twenty thousand?” Even in spiritual warfare, strategy matters. Counting the cost matters. Knowing what we are facing matters.

When I reflect on how the twelve spies returned—ten full of fear, two full of faith—I see a reflection of myself in both groups. There are days when I look at the promises of God and say, “Yes, we can take it.” But there are other days when I see the giants and think, “This is too much. We are like grasshoppers.” The same evidence brought two completely different conclusions. What made the difference?

I think the answer lies not just in what they saw, but in how they saw it. All twelve saw the same land. They saw the fruit, the people, the fortified cities. But Joshua and Caleb viewed the land through the lens of God’s faithfulness. The others viewed it through the lens of their fear. It reminds me that knowing before you attack is not just about gathering facts; it is about framing them with faith.

When God calls us into something new—a ministry, a mission, a reconciliation, a confrontation—we must not enter with blind zeal. Zeal without knowledge is dangerous. Paul himself once persecuted Christians with the fire of religious zeal, thinking he was doing God’s will. It wasn’t until his eyes were literally opened that he saw things as they truly were. And so I am learning to pray not just for courage, but for clarity. Not just for strength, but for sight.

There have been seasons in my life when I felt ready to attack—to move forward, to claim what was promised. But God held me back. Not because the promise was withdrawn, but because I wasn’t ready. I needed to see more. Learn more. Understand more. Sometimes I needed to go into the “land” quietly, like the spies, to discern the reality of what lay ahead. I needed to hear the whispering voices of fear so I could learn how to silence them. I needed to face the question: Will I believe what I see, or will I believe what God has said?

There is also a deep lesson in how the majority influenced the community. Ten voices full of fear made an entire nation turn away from the promise. Words have power. The way we interpret what we see can impact others. This reflection humbles me. I must be careful not to discourage others simply because I am afraid. I must not speak defeat over a situation that God has already declared victorious. Joshua and Caleb tore their clothes and pleaded with the people, saying, “The land we passed through and explored is exceedingly good. If the Lord is pleased with us, he will lead us into that land… Do not be afraid of the people of the land” (Numbers 14:7–9). But the people had already internalized fear.

To “know before you attack” is not only a call to prepare; it is also a warning to interpret well. We must guard our hearts against jumping to conclusions born of fear. We must learn to report honestly, but also trust deeply. Faith does not mean denying the presence of giants—it means believing they will fall.

I believe God sends us to explore the land before we possess it because He wants to grow our discernment. He wants us to ask the right questions: What kind of battle is this? Is it physical, spiritual, emotional? What resources do I need? Who should I walk with into this land? What lessons must I carry with me? We do not honor God by rushing in unprepared. We honor Him by trusting His process—even when it includes scouting trips and waiting seasons.

As I grow older in faith, I am learning that delay is not always denial. The Israelites delayed their entrance because they doubted, but God had originally allowed time to explore. That time was meant to equip them, not derail them. So now, when God tells me to pause and look, I no longer resist. I pray, “Lord, help me see what You see. Help me know what I must before I move. And when the time comes, give me the faith of Caleb to say, ‘We should go up and take possession of the land, for we can certainly do it’” (Numbers 13:30).

In knowing before I attack, I learn not only the size of the enemy but the size of my God. I learn the value of obedience over impulse. I learn that wisdom walks hand in hand with faith. And above all, I learn that God's promises are not always easy, but they are always worth it.

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Plastic Surgery

There is a quiet transformation that happens here, not just in the seasons, but on the human body itself. It is not whispered in shame but spoken openly, celebrated, and even promoted. Plastic surgery in Korea is more than a medical procedure; it is a cultural rhythm, a rite of passage, a form of self-gift and personal investment. There is surgery for nearly every part of the body—your eyes can be made larger, your nose sharper, your jawline refined, your height subtly extended, your skin tightened, your waist narrowed. And this is not rare. It is popular. It is normal. It is admired.

To an outsider, this may seem extreme, even unnecessary. But the logic here is deeply felt. Beauty opens doors. Beauty gives you confidence. Beauty makes life just a little easier in a country where competition is constant and appearances are not just aesthetic—they are practical. People are hired based on how they look. First impressions carry the weight of judgment. Your presentation becomes part of your résumé. In such a context, it makes sense that young people, especially women, save money not just for tuition or travel, but for surgery. Sometimes it’s a birthday gift. Sometimes a graduation reward. Sometimes a private longing fulfilled quietly, after months of saving and planning.

I remember being surprised when I first heard a student say, “I want to do my eyes after graduation.” The way she said it was so casual, like one might talk about buying new shoes or getting a haircut. And yet, it was about cutting into the body—altering what was naturally given. Still, her tone was not full of shame. It was matter-of-fact. It was something everyone understood. And when others heard, they nodded with support. Not because she needed it, but because, why not? Why not improve what you already have? Why not be your best self?

Over time, I’ve come to understand the deeper ache beneath the surface. It’s not always vanity. Sometimes it’s insecurity. Sometimes it’s competition. Sometimes it’s the silent burden of being invisible, unnoticed, passed over. In a culture where so much is fast-paced and perfection-driven, beauty becomes a kind of shield, a way to survive the pressure. And in many ways, it works. Those who are beautiful are often treated better. They receive more kindness, more attention, more opportunities.

But I often wonder, at what cost?

The body is not just skin and bone. It is sacred. It carries stories, memories, dignity. It was knit together by God—not accidentally, but intentionally. Psalm 139:13-14 says, “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” There is nothing accidental in these words. “Fearfully and wonderfully” does not mean flawlessly in a worldly sense. It means with purpose. With reverence. With divine attention.

So what happens when we undo the work of God with our own scalpels? What happens when we slice the canvas of creation to paint a new image? Do we become more ourselves—or less? These are not easy questions. They cannot be answered with slogans or judgment. Because some people genuinely suffer from physical features that bring ridicule or deep emotional pain. For them, surgery becomes a healing act, a chance to breathe easier, to live freely. And God, who sees the heart, understands their pain. He is not against healing. He is not against correction.

But there is another kind of surgery—one born not from pain, but from pressure. From comparison. From fear. From the false gospel of beauty that says: “You are only as worthy as you are pretty. You are only lovable if your features match the current trend.” This gospel is subtle, but it is loud. It shows up in Instagram filters, in job interviews, in dating culture, in family expectations. And when we are not careful, it can reshape not only our bodies, but our souls.

I wonder how Jesus would walk the streets of Gangnam, where many clinics are clustered, and where people walk with bandaged noses and bruised eyes after surgery. Would He judge them? Would He shake His head in disapproval? I don’t think so. I think He would look at them with eyes full of truth and tenderness. I think He would ask them questions—not to shame them, but to invite them to deeper healing. “What are you really longing for?” “Who told you that you were not enough?” “What do you think beauty will give you?” And perhaps, He would weep—not for the surgery itself, but for the pressure that led to it. For the lies we believe. For the worth we forget.

In the Gospels, we see Jesus constantly reaching out to those whose appearances were dismissed or scorned. He touched the leper. He honored the woman with the bleeding issue. He saw Zacchaeus in a tree. He loved people not for how they looked, but for who they were. He never once complimented someone on their physical beauty. Instead, He praised faith, humility, generosity, hunger for righteousness. He said, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God” (Matthew 5:8). Purity of heart, not purity of skin. Humility, not symmetry. Kindness, not perfection.

And yet, we live in a world that reverses these values. Here, beauty is a kind of currency. And if you cannot be born with it, you can buy it. But the danger is not the procedure—it is the belief that beauty can complete us. That it can define us. That it can save us. This is where the gospel must speak.

The gospel says: you are already seen. Already known. Already loved. Not because of how you look, but because of who made you. The cross did not redeem your body because it was perfect. It redeemed you because you were precious. And that preciousness is not altered by appearance.

I think often about how Jesus’ resurrected body still bore scars. The holes in His hands and side were not erased. They remained as evidence of love. What if our scars—both visible and hidden—are not things to hide, but places through which God’s love can be revealed? What if the body is not just something to perfect, but something to honor?

To be Christian in a culture of beauty obsession is not to reject beauty—it is to redefine it. To say: beauty is not conformity to a global standard. Beauty is dignity. Beauty is uniqueness. Beauty is image-bearing. And even when the world cannot see it, God can. He looks beyond the surface.

But this is hard. Especially when the people around you seem more successful, more loved, more confident after surgery. You begin to wonder: “Should I do it too?” And sometimes, the answer is not simple. I do not write this to give rules, but to offer reflection. I do not write to condemn, but to ask: is your longing leading you to freedom—or to deeper captivity?

If you find yourself constantly unhappy with your face, your body, your appearance, ask God to show you how He sees you. Ask Him to heal not just your skin, but your soul. Because true healing begins within. You can change your face, but if your heart remains wounded, the surgery will not satisfy. Only Christ can tell you who you really are. Only He can name you. And His name for you is not “ugly” or “not enough.” It is beloved.

Perhaps there is a deeper surgery God wants to do—not with knives, but with love. A surgery of the heart. A cutting away of lies. A reshaping of self-perception. A restoration of dignity. This surgery will not cost you millions of won, but it may cost you your pride, your masks, your fear. Still, it will heal you in ways no cosmetic surgeon ever can. Because it goes to the root.

I do not know your story. Maybe you have done surgery. Maybe you are planning it. Maybe you are against it. Wherever you are, know this: God sees you. He sees the layers beneath your skin. He sees the longing to be loved, to be seen, to be chosen. And He does not wait for you to become beautiful by worldly standards. He loves you now.

So walk tall. Not because your nose is perfect or your eyes are wide. Walk tall because your identity is held in the One who shaped the galaxies and still chose to shape you. You are not a mistake. You are not an unfinished project. You are a living image of God.

Let that truth settle into your bones. Let it echo louder than any advertisement. Let it quiet the lies. And if you do choose to alter your appearance, do it not from shame, but from a place of peace. A place that already knows: I am loved. I am seen. I am enough.

This is the miracle of grace. That we do not have to perform beauty to be treasured. We already are. In Christ, we wear a radiance that surgery cannot give. The radiance of being known, forgiven, and loved. And that, more than any feature, makes us truly beautiful.

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Koreans and Brands

It is hard not to notice. Everyone wears a brand. From the shoes on their feet to the bags they carry, to the small perfume bottle tucked in a purse, everything is marked with a name—often a foreign one, usually expensive. You walk the streets of Seoul or take a train ride, and the labels speak before people do. Nike, Adidas, Louis Vuitton, Gucci, New Balance, Fila, Chanel, Dior. Children wear them, high schoolers wear them, university students wear them, elderly men and women wear them too. It is not simply fashion. It is a culture of identity. A language of appearance. A badge of status. You may not know someone’s story, but by looking at their shoes or the emblem on their coat, you can guess where they shop, what they value, perhaps even what they wish to be. Brand is important here. It is more than clothing. It speaks. It declares.

At first, I didn’t quite understand. I thought it was just a love for fashion, or maybe a desire to look good. But the longer I lived here, the more I realized that brand is connected to worth. To dignity. To being seen. To being accepted. When everyone wears a brand, not wearing one can feel like being invisible. Like your presence lacks weight. Even among children, the desire to own something branded comes early. You see it in the playground, in the classroom, in the way children compare pencil cases, backpacks, or sneakers. Somewhere along the way, the brand becomes a silent resume. It speaks of taste, of access, of class, of dreams.

And this is not just about Korea. It is a reflection of a broader human hunger—the longing to belong, the desire to be enough, the ache to be someone. It’s just that in Korea, the expression of this longing is very polished, very structured, very marketable. And in many ways, it is successful. Big brands from America, Europe, and Korea alike have flooded the market. Small businesses struggle because when people can buy Nike, why settle for less? When someone can afford Samsung, why choose an unknown? The market becomes a mirror of our need to be affirmed. To be associated with power, quality, prestige.

And in the middle of this, I often feel lost. Not because I don’t admire nice things. I do. But because I begin to question what is enough. What counts? What makes me present in a room? What makes someone pay attention? Is it what I wear? Is it the logo on my shoes or the label stitched inside my coat? And if so, then who am I when the brand is stripped away? When I’m just me? Will I still be enough?

These questions drive me back to Scripture, back to a place where names matter more than brands, and identity is given, not bought. I think of the words in Isaiah 43:1: “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.” This verse does not wear Gucci. It does not wear Chanel. It wears the voice of God. A voice that does not require packaging. A voice that speaks worth before appearance. A voice that knows my name—not my brand.

In a world where identity is so often performed, so carefully curated, this verse shakes me. It reminds me that I am known not because of what I wear, but because of whose I am. “You are mine.” There is no higher brand than being owned by God, and yet it does not cost money. It cost blood—His. In Christ, my identity is not stitched into fabric. It is etched into eternity. And yet, how often I forget.

Sometimes I catch myself wanting to fit in. Wanting to look the part. Wanting to wear something that will make me feel a little more polished, a little more seen. I don’t think this desire is evil. But it becomes dangerous when I begin to attach my value to it. When I forget that Jesus walked this earth with no beauty or majesty to attract us to Him. Isaiah says, “He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to Him, nothing in His appearance that we should desire Him” (Isaiah 53:2). Jesus was not branded. He was not marketable. He did not wear fame. Yet He carried the fullness of God.

And that humbles me. Because it means that the essence of my faith—my Lord and Savior—did not need labels to be enough. He was not less because He wore no brand. He was not more when they gave Him a crown of thorns. He was enough, always. His power came from within. From identity rooted in the Father. And that same identity has now been shared with me. Through Him, I am called a child of God. Through Him, I wear a name that does not fade.

Still, I live in a world where appearances speak loudly. I see how people are treated differently based on how they look. How some doors open more easily when a person looks the part. How even churches are not always immune to this bias. We smile at well-dressed people. We notice certain kinds of success. And I wonder, what does it mean to be Christian in a branded world? Not just in theory, but in practice.

I think it means refusing to build our self-worth on what is external. Not in an arrogant way, but in a rooted way. It means being willing to wear simple things without shame. It means treating the unbranded person with the same honor as the one in designer wear. It means investing in people more than products. It means noticing when our identity starts to drift from Christ to clothing, from the cross to the closet. And gently calling ourselves back.

It also means redefining excellence. Because excellence is not only about high cost. It is about integrity, care, purpose. A small business that operates with truth and kindness is far more excellent than a massive brand built on exploitation and lies. But to support the small, we must believe in the value of the unseen. We must resist the easy pull of status, and learn to see differently.

The challenge is real. Living in a country where brand is a lifestyle can be overwhelming. Sometimes I feel inadequate. Like I’m missing something. Like I will never quite catch up. But then I remember the story of David. When the prophet Samuel came to anoint a king, David was not even in the room. His father did not think he mattered. He was the unbranded one. Yet God saw him. “The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7).

That verse steadies me. It reminds me that God's eyes are not fooled by logos and labels. He sees the heart. The quiet courage. The hidden kindness. The small faithfulness. These things do not trend. But they endure. In God’s eyes, they are priceless.

I do not write this to shame those who love brands or who work hard to afford them. Beauty and design are gifts. Creativity is part of God's image. It is okay to enjoy nice things. But let us not be owned by them. Let us not believe that they complete us. Because at the end of the day, clothes fade. Logos change. Styles die. But the name written in the Book of Life endures forever. That is the brand that matters most.

So I walk the streets of Korea with new eyes. I admire the beauty, but I ask deeper questions. What am I wearing on my heart? What name is shaping my identity today? Is it the brand of the world, or the seal of the Spirit? Am I living for approval, or from it?

Every day, I choose again. Sometimes I fail. Sometimes I get caught up in comparison. But God is patient. He calls me back. He reminds me, gently, that I am already enough in Him. I am already known. Already loved. Already called.

I do not need to wear a brand to be seen by God. He sees me already. He knows my name. And in a world that is constantly shouting for recognition, that quiet truth is my peace. It is enough.

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