Joining God’s Future in the Present


Chapter 34

This morning, I was leafing through The Marriage of Heaven and Earth by Marlin Watling, a visual guide to the theology of N. T. Wright. Four key ideas stood out to me, ideas Wright articulates with a clarity and coherence that few others manage.

First, Wright connects the entire Bible into one unfolding story. Scripture is not a loose collection of moral lessons or spiritual ideas, but a single narrative of God’s faithfulness to creation.

Second, he places Jesus back at the very center of that story and rescues him from being reduced to an “option” among many possibilities. While many today are drawn to faith because of its perceived benefits, eternal life, forgiveness, meaning, acceptance, the apostles understood Jesus differently. They proclaimed him as King. The gospel was not primarily advice or self-help; it was news.

Third, Wright reframes the kingdom of God as new creation—a reality that began decisively with the resurrection. God’s future has already broken into the present. The resurrection is not an escape from the world but the start of its renewal.

Fourth, he opens a fresh perspective on morality. Being created in God’s image and called to be stewards of his world invites us beyond a simple right-and-wrong framework. Instead, we are asked to live as redeemed people within a still-fallen world, shaped by God’s future rather than merely reacting to present brokenness.

Wright repeatedly links this vision to resurrection life. What we do now—acts of justice, creativity, beauty, and faithfulness matters. These are not temporary distractions or spiritual side projects; they are real contributions toward God’s coming kingdom. In Simply Christian, Wright shows how worship, art, and mission serve as bridges between heaven and earth, affirming the goodness of creation while anticipating its healing. This reflects his broader emphasis on embodied hope, rather than a disembodied heaven.

He captures this tension beautifully:

Made for spirituality, we wallow in introspection.
Made for joy, we settle for pleasure.
Made for justice, we clamor for vengeance.
Made for relationship, we insist on our own way.
Made for beauty, we are satisfied with sentiment.
But new creation has already begun. The sun has begun to rise. Christians are called to leave behind, in the tomb of Jesus Christ, all that belongs to the brokenness and incompleteness of the present world … That, quite simply, is what it means to be Christian: to follow Jesus Christ into the new world—God’s new world—which he has thrown open before us.

Wishing you a good start to the week, trusting in the promise of God’s renewal.

Philemon

The one who walked away

Chapter 33

There’s a moment in Mark’s Gospel that is one of the saddest lines in the Bible ..
yet this sentence matters!

A young man — sincere, moral, eager — runs to Jesus and asks THE question:
“What must I do to inherit eternal life?”

Jesus looks at him, really looks at him, and loves him. And love, in this case, meant telling him the truth. Jesus put his finger right on the one thing that the man couldn’t surrender:
his wealth. “Go, sell what you own, give it to the poor, and you’ll have treasure in heaven. Then come and follow me”. “Let it go… then come, follow Me.”

It was an invitation not into poverty, but into freedom, not into loss, but into life. But the young man’s can’t do it.

And he walks away.

What moves me most is that Jesus doesn’t chase him. No bargaining. No softer offer. No desperate plea. Jesus love never manipulates. Jesus love invites… and then leaves us room to choose.

This story sits in Scripture like a mirror. Is Jesus trying to free us from what takes life out of us?

What is your “one thing“?

Let’s pause long enough to hear His invitation.

Philemon



The Jesus We Forget

Chapter 32

Monday reflections — it’s been quite a long pause …

Each week offers a new reason to fear, a new reason to divide.
But every so often, a story appears that quietly asks:
Have we forgotten the Jesus we claim to follow?

This past week, two very different stories crossed my path.
The first, a BBC report celebrating a young, vibrant man, the first Muslim and African-born mayor of his city.
The second, a Christian post declaring that New York had chosen the antichrist.

The contrast was jarring and it made me pause.
How quickly fear finds a microphone, and how easily faith forgets its own language.

Somewhere, between our certainties and our screens, we have learned to see threat before we see a person. We react before we listen. We defend “our” Jesus more fiercely than we follow the real one.

Yet the Jesus of the Gospels moved through the world differently.
He crossed boundaries others avoided. He spoke with those others feared.
He did not teach fear — He taught love.

“Love your neighbour as yourself.” — Mark 12:31

Such a simple command — and yet it undoes the entire machinery of fear if we dare to take it seriously.

When I think of that, I realise how often we forget Him, not the name, not the rituals, but the heart, the manner, the courage of His love.

The new mayor of New York is not a warning sign or a coded prophecy.
He is a person, seeking to serve, to lead, to navigate a city of impossible complexity.
When we reduce him to an idea — or worse, a danger — we reveal something broken not in him, but in ourselves.

Jesus never called us to protect the gospel with suspicion.
He called us to embody it with grace. Fear has never preserved faith; it has only made it smaller.

The Jesus we forget;
the one who saw people before labels,
who met differences with curiosity,
who broke bread instead of building walls.

Not the Jesus of panic and possession,
but the Jesus who trusted love more than fear.

To remember Him is not to recall a doctrine, but to re-enter a way of being —
to let His mercy shape our seeing.

And when we remember the Jesus we forget,
we might, at last, remember ourselves.

Philemon
(Inspired by Dan Foster )

Refilled Again: The God of Second Pourings

Chapter 31

John 2:1–11

There was a wedding in Cana — full of laughter, dancing, and joy — until someone noticed a problem: the wine had run out. In that culture, this wasn’t a small issue. Wine represented joy and blessing, and to run out was a public embarrassment. The celebration was about to collapse into shame. Mary saw it first. She turned to Jesus and said, “They have no more wine.” He hesitated, saying His time had not yet come. But she simply told the servants, “Do whatever He tells you.” Nearby were six large stone jars used for ceremonial washing. Jesus told the servants to fill them with water. They did, no flash of light, no sound from heaven, just obedience in the ordinary. Then, as the water was poured out, it became wine — and not just any wine, but the best of the night. The host was amazed. The party went on. Most guests never even knew a miracle had happened.

The miracle at Cana wasn’t loud or dramatic. It happened quietly, behind the scenes, before anyone knew there was a problem. It was just the quiet fix!

So much of God’s work in our lives looks the same way — quiet, unseen, and deeply faithful. Someone forgives. Someone prays. Someone gives when no one is watching. The jars get filled before the joy runs dry. It’s a reminder that the holiest work often looks like ordinary care. The world doesn’t hold together through grand gestures but through small, faithful acts of love. Sooner or later, the wine runs out again — not just at weddings, but in life. The energy fades. The joy drains away. Faith feels thin. We keep smiling, hoping no one notices how empty we feel inside. But the miracle at Cana tells us something beautiful: the jars had to be empty before they could be filled again. Renewal begins in the emptiness — when we stop pretending, admit the shortage, and bring it to Jesus. “There is no more wine” becomes the prayer that opens the door to transformation.

Every act of love, every quiet “yes” to God in hard seasons, is its own kind of miracle. Love runs out, and yet we keep showing up. Faith feels small, and yet we keep trusting. Somehow, God keeps refilling what we thought was empty.

That’s the promise of Cana — that Jesus still fills our jars.

Not always dramatically, not always instantly, but always faithfully.

And somewhere between the pouring and the tasting, the water becomes wine again.

If the quiet fix is often the best one, what empty jar are you willing to offer up for transformation this week?

And where in your own life might you be the “servant”—performing a small, ordinary act of obedience that leads to someone else’s unnoticed miracle?

Wishing you a good start to this new week 42 of 2025!

Philemon

Beyond Presence

Chapter 30

As the Psalmist writes:

“You make known to me the path of life;
in your presence there is fullness of joy;
at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.”
(Psaume 16:11)

And across languages and lands, wisdom whispers the same truth:

“Nunya, adidoe, asi metune o.”
Wisdom is like a baobab tree; no one person can embrace it.

“Dzidzɔ le ame me.” — Joy is found in people.

“Ame si le wò me, nye wò nye.” — The person who is in you, is you.

“Petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid.” — Little by little, the bird builds its nest.

“C’est en marchant qu’on trace le chemin.” — It’s by walking that the path is made.

“Le cœur voit plus loin que les yeux.” — The heart sees farther than the eyes.

In these past weeks, I found myself once again on the road — once again in Lomé, Togo, in West Africa. Two weeks of listening, observing, and speaking in French — a language that so often humbles me, showing me where my words end and silence begins. After a week, I noticed something curious: I hadn’t used the futur simple tense even once. At first, I smiled at the limitation. But then I saw the quiet wisdom in it — a call to stay here, in this moment, without rushing toward what is not yet.

Perhaps that is the deeper gift of presence — not just being somewhere, but being here.

In the journey of listening and understanding, we are invited to move beyond presence as simple attendance, and to enter into presence as wholehearted engagement. True presence is more than showing up; it is meeting life — and one another — with our whole being. It is the space where relationship, transformation, and healing unfold; where, as the Psalmist writes, “there is fullness of joy.”

A therapeutic presence? …. that rare stillness of heart where one is open, attentive, and fully available — where compassion flows without effort. Martin Buber, the philosopher of relational depth, captures this essence when he writes, “In the beginning is the relationship.” For Buber, true presence means standing fully with another in mutual openness and acknowledgement. And ancient African wisdom speaks the same truth through Ubuntu: “A person is a person through other people.”

When we allow ourselves to dwell in this deeper presence — beyond roles, beyond words — we touch something sacred. We remember that life is not only about doing or becoming, but about being with. And in that being, there is joy. There is healing. There is God.

I experienced once again a few glimpses of this path, and I want to keep learning — doucement, ensemble — gently, together, where much is shared, joy is discovered, and love and care become visible even in places and moments where so much of daily needs are lacking, or deeply in need of change.

Philemon


Au‑delà de la Présence

Chapitre 30

Comme l’écrit le Psalmiste :

« Tu me fais connaître le chemin de la vie ;
dans ta présence il y a plénitude de joie ;
à ta droite sont les délices pour toujours. »
(Psaume 16:11)

Et à travers les langues et les terres, la sagesse murmure la même vérité :

“Nunya, adidoe, asi metune o.”
La sagesse est comme le baobab : personne ne peut l’embrasser seul.

“Dzidzɔ le ame me.” — La joie se trouve dans les autres.

“Ame si le wò me, nye wò nye.” — La personne qui est en toi, c’est toi.

“Petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid.” — Petit à petit, l’oiseau construit son nid.

“C’est en marchant qu’on trace le chemin.” — C’est en marchant que le chemin se fait.

“Le cœur voit plus loin que les yeux.” — Le cœur voit plus loin que les yeux.

Ces dernières semaines, je me suis retrouvé une fois encore sur la route — à Lomé, au Togo, en Afrique de l’Ouest. Deux semaines d’écoute, d’observation et de parole en français, une langue qui m’humilie souvent, me montrant où mes mots s’arrêtent et où le silence commence. Après une semaine, j’ai remarqué quelque chose de curieux : je n’avais pas utilisé une seule fois le futur simple. Au début, j’ai souri de cette limitation. Puis j’ai perçu la sagesse tranquille qu’elle portait — un appel à rester ici, dans ce moment, sans courir vers ce qui n’est pas encore.

Peut-être est-ce là le don le plus profond de la présence — non pas être simplement quelque part, mais être ici, pleinement.

Dans le chemin de l’écoute et de la compréhension, nous sommes invités à dépasser la présence comme simple participation, pour entrer dans une présence vécue de tout cœur. La véritable présence dépasse le fait de se montrer ; elle consiste à rencontrer la vie — et les autres — avec tout notre être. C’est dans cet espace que se déploient les relations, la transformation et la guérison ; là où, comme le dit le Psalmiste, « il y a plénitude de joie ».

Une présence thérapeutique ? … cette rare immobilité du cœur où l’on est ouvert, attentif et pleinement disponible — où la compassion s’écoule sans effort. Martin Buber, le philosophe de la profondeur relationnelle, en saisit l’essence lorsqu’il écrit : « Au commencement est la relation ». Pour Buber, la véritable présence signifie se tenir pleinement avec l’autre dans une ouverture et une reconnaissance mutuelles. Et la sagesse africaine ancienne dit la même chose à travers l’Ubuntu : « Une personne est une personne à travers les autres. »

Lorsque nous nous permettons de demeurer dans cette présence profonde — au‑delà des rôles, au‑delà des mots — nous touchons quelque chose de sacré. Nous nous rappelons que la vie n’est pas seulement faite d’agir ou de devenir, mais d’être avec. Et dans cet être, il y a la joie. Il y a la guérison. Il y a Dieu.

Je me suis retrouvé une fois encore à entrevoir quelques éléments de ce chemin, et je veux continuer à apprendre — doucement, ensemble — où tant est partagé, où la joie se découvre, et où l’amour et le soin deviennent visibles, même dans les lieux et les moments où tant de besoins quotidiens font défaut, ou réclament profondément un changement.

Philemon

Beyond Judgement

Chapter 29

“The unexamined life is not worth living.” (Socrates). “But as for me, I know that my Redeemer lives.” (Job 19:25).

Our lived experience (phenomenology) calls us to notice how things appear in the experience itself. To be at peace, we have to be present to the other as they are, not merely as our psychological projections. Cultivating a non-judgmental posture of “attentive seeing” allows us to engage the actual person rather than a caricature shaped by our own bias.

Immediate judgment in the discipline of phenomenology is what is known as “epoche”. Edmund Husserl, the “father” of modern phenomenology, spoke of suspending our presuppositions (judgments) to encounter phenomena afresh. Applied to being at peace with others, it means pausing before we assign motive or meaning to their behavior. That pause opens a space where reconciliation is still possible.

As Husserl wrote, “Religious faith is a highest form of freedom and self-determination. It is the highest ethical act, because it is an act of pure, unconditional obedience to an absolute reason.”

This week, let’s practice the “epoche” in our interactions. Let’s pause before we judge, suspend our assumptions, and make space for grace. By doing so, we can move from merely reacting to others to truly seeing them as they are, creating a pathway to authentic connection and peace.

Philemon

Beyond Hearing

Chapter 28

Isaiah 55:3 – “Incline your ear, and come to me; hear, that your soul may live.”

We live in a time where people talk at one another more than they speak with one another. We interrupt before we understand, prepare replies before the other has finished, confuse volume with truth, and mistake winning an argument for winning a heart. In the noise, something essential slips away: the art of listening.

Roland Barthes noted, “Hearing is a physiological phenomenon; listening is a psychological act.” Hearing is mechanical; listening engages perception, attention, and interpretation. And in that space between hearing and listening, words take root. They stir the heart before the mind arranges them into thoughts. Our emotions often respond before our reasoning does.

Thus, listening is not merely cognitive but embodied, emotional, and relational. It asks us to notice our inner stirrings—the tightness of the chest, the warmth of recognition, the flare of defensiveness—before they quietly dictate how we judge another’s words.

True listening is not performance, politeness, or strategy. It is dignity. It tells another: You are worth my full attention, without conditions. And it admits: Your words touch something in me before I can even explain it.

The loss of listening costs us dearly. It erodes trust, flattens complexity, fuels suspicion, and hardens division. Yet beneath the shouting lies a universal hunger: to be heard without interruption, judgment, or reduction. Hemingway once observed, “When people talk, listen completely. Most people never listen.”

If we cannot listen, relationships fray, communities fracture, and democracies weaken. We cannot solve what we refuse to understand, and we cannot understand what we have never truly heard.

Recovering listening requires slowing down in a culture of immediacy, resisting the impulse to correct before we comprehend, and letting another’s words land within us. It also requires awareness of our own interior life, acknowledging what rises in us before thought takes shape.

As Sue Patton Thoele writes, “Deep listening is miraculous for both the listener and the speaker. When someone receives us with open-hearted, non-judgmental listening, our spirits expand.” Listening opens more than ears—it opens the self to another’s presence.

Listening is not passive. It is a creative act that transforms conflict into conversation, suspicion into curiosity, strangers into neighbors. It makes mutual change possible.

If we long for a future worth inhabiting, we must do more than hear each other’s words. We must let them reach us—body, heart, and spirit—before rushing to reply. For sometimes the first act of justice is to listen until the truth emerges. Without such listening, there can be no healing.

Paraphrased from the original Article of
Mark J. Chironna, PhD, The Disappearing Art of Listening

I wish you a good start to this new week.
Philemon

Becoming happens on the way

Chapter 27

C’est en marchant qu’on devient voyageur.
El camino es la meta.
Becoming happens on the way

We chase results. We crave closure.
As if a finish line could make sense of the chaos.

But life rarely gives us clean endings.
More often, it gives us process — messy, slow, uncertain.

What shapes us isn’t the moment we “make it,”
but the mornings we show up tired.
The quiet decisions no one sees.
The detours we never planned.

Becoming isn’t flashy.
It’s quiet erosion and slow, steady growth.
Letting go of what no longer fits.
Building strength we didn’t know we’d need.

The path may not look like progress.
But in staying on it — in the walking —
we are being made.

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”
Psalm 119:105

And it is not by our strength alone. God provides, guides, and walks beside us,
illuminating and giving light to our path! (what grace and what a blessing!)

Dieu merci!

Philemon

Meta-regulation

Chapter 26

“Listen and attend with the ear of your heart.” The Rule of St. Benedict

In the crumbling dusk of the Roman Empire, when noise, power, and decadence had drowned out clarity, a young man named Benedict of Nursia didn’t panic — he paused.

He walked away from the noise, not in fear, but with fierce intent.

He didn’t draft a revolution. He wrote a rhythm.

The Rule of St. Benedict wasn’t dramatic. It was wise. It didn’t demand heroic virtue. It designed for it. It gave monks a daily structure — when to rise, when to work, when to pray, when to rest — that made holiness less a matter of inspiration, and more a matter of habit.

And that, dear reader, is our invitation this Monday.

Benedict crafted what became known as The Rule – a small, astonishingly practical document that told monks exactly when to rise, when to pray, when to speak, when to keep blessed silence. It mapped the soul’s path not through slogans, but through structure.

This wasn’t moral heroism. This was holy architecture.
While kings warred and cities burned, Benedict’s monks rose at dawn. They prayed the psalms. They tilled the soil. They read by candlelight. They worked, rested, and worshipped in rhythm — not because they felt like it, but because their life was designed that way.

They didn’t rely on inspiration. They relied on formation. If today’s psychologists speak of metaregulation — the art of structuring your life to avoid moral fatigue, emotional burnout, or willpower failure — then Benedict was doing it.

He didn’t trust monks to be saints by instinct. He trusted rules, routines, and the deep, quiet strength of repetition, because holiness, he knew, is rarely spontaneous. It is scheduled.

Benedict’s world fell apart. Ours is noisy, too, but the answer might still be the same:

“Almighty God, give me wisdom to perceive You, intelligence to understand You, diligence to seek You, patience to wait for You, eyes to behold You, a heart to meditate upon You and life to proclaim You, through the power of the Spirit of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.”
Benedict of Nursia


Philemon

One Handful

Chapter 25

An elderly man spent his mornings in the garden — just a few square meters of herbs, birdsong, and silence. A neighbor once asked why he didn’t rent it out for extra income.
“I like my mornings quiet,” he said, brushing dirt from his hands. “Pulling weeds. Listening to the birds.”

While others squeezed profit from every inch, he spent his time with care — quietly, intentionally, beautifully.

What is your second handful costing you?

There’s an old line in Ecclesiastes — a verse that doesn’t care about your to-do list, but about your soul and spirituality.

“Better one handful with tranquillity than two handfuls with toil and chasing after the wind.”

Work isn’t the enemy. Showing up, creating, pushing hard — there’s deep meaning in that. But somewhere along the way, we stopped working for peace and started working against it. We didn’t mean to trade purpose for pressure — but somewhere between the deadlines and dopamine, we stopped asking why and just asked what’s next. Vision gave way to speed. Thoughtfulness drowned in efficiency. Rest became a problem to solve. We don’t just do more now — we are what we do. And somehow, in all our momentum, we forgot how to stop.

Ecclesiastes isn’t anti-effort. It’s anti-frenzy.
It’s telling us: You can win the race and still lose yourself.

One handful doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means doing what matters — and letting the rest go.

Amid the noise of more, peace is a sacred refusal. Not the kind that shouts, but the kind that stays still while everything else runs. Peace isn’t retreat — it’s resistance, a refusal to be consumed. In a culture that worships noise, speed, and output, choosing peace isn’t giving up — it’s fighting back.

Philemon