Losing with God

Chapter 5

The dialogue traces a shift from fighting external demons to embracing a far more difficult internal surrender: the art of losing to the Divine.

“One day, I asked Father Makarios, “Do you still wrestle with the devil?”

Father Makarios said, “No. I used to wrestle with the devil all the time. But now I have grown old and tired, and the devil has grown old and tired with me. So I leave him alone and he leaves me alone.”

I asked, “Then life is easy now?”

Father Makarios responded, “Oh, no. Life is much harder now. For now I wrestle with God.”

I exclaimed, “You wrestle with God and hope to win?”

“No,” said Father Makarios, “I wrestle with God and hope to lose.”

Nikos Kazantzakis (1883–1957) Report to Greco

Have a good start with this thought!
Philemon

It fell by the wayside

Chapter 4

As he was scattering or sowing the seed, some fell along the path, or the wayside, so it was trodden down, and the birds came and ate it up. (Matthew 13.4, Mark 4.4 + Luke 8.5)

Matthew emphasises judgment upon unresponsive hearts, echoing Isaiah 6:9’s lament over a hardened generation. In this soil of resistance, only receptive hearts form the “holy seed” remnant, capable of producing a harvest even amid widespread judgment. The prophets of the era repeatedly called Israel to repentance, urging a return to God that could restore what had been lost; the sower in Matthew embodies that divine persistence.

Mark’s account stresses urgency and responsibility—“He who has ears, let him hear”—reminding us that hearing the Word is not passive but demands attentive engagement. Luke, meanwhile, highlights practical fruitfulness, the endurance necessary for growth. These variations are not contradictions; they are complementary witnesses, each revealing a facet of the Kingdom: Mark preserves the raw immediacy of Jesus’ message, Matthew situates it in covenantal context, Luke underscores perseverance in daily life. The message is clear: the Word of the Kingdom requires hearts willing to receive, nurture, and produce.

Like ancient paths trodden by countless feet, our hearts often become hardened by the repetitive “ploughing” of daily life—work, worries, endless scrolling, and distractions. Yet, just as the sower of old did not give up, scattering seeds where many fell to waste, Jesus continues to sow lavishly today. The Word falls freely, generously, and repeatedly, calling each heart to wake, to open, receive, and bear fruit. God’s grace is persistent; His kingdom labour is patient, yet it calls for faithful cultivation.

The wayside soil is not a verdict; more a call to awareness. Even when the seed seems lost, God’s patience and the continual sowing of His Word invite renewal and eventual fruitfulness. In the divine economy, no space is beyond reach, no heart too hardened, if it is turned toward the Sower.

It fell by the wayside, even paths hardened are not beyond God’s transforming touch.

Philemon

Ambiguitätstoleranz – Tolerance of ambiguity

Chapter 2

What a Word

My current favorite word for our time is one that increasingly struggles to endure ambiguity or perhaps no longer wants to. A time in which the longing for clarity and simple answers is growing. And yes: clarity sells well.

It is so clear and provides stability; it is so simple in a time when nothing seems simple anymore.

Like a number.
A number has a fixed value.
After all, everything has its price.
A number is incorruptible.
It is strong and clear and magnificent.
But is that really so?
Does everything have to have a price?

Does everything have to be unambiguous?

Are it not often the ambiguous things in life that make our lives truly valuable?
To be loved.
To experience recognition.
Or even to be able to believe.
Things that cannot be bought.

That is what sometimes makes life hard to endure.
That is what challenges me.
That is what must be endured.

Tolerance of ambiguity, enduring contradictions without resolving them immediately.
Tolerance of ambiguity is the dance between chairs and opinions.
Tolerance of ambiguity is also the dance of faith.

Because faith is always full of tension.
God speaks — clearly? Not really.
Sometimes through donkeys, through trees, and sometimes through me.
Understandable and unambiguous?

Sometimes I have to endure it; the tension between the Holy Spirit and my own quirks.
Sometimes the tension between faith and doubt.
Sometimes the tension between how things are now and how they will become.
Sometimes the tension between hoping and not knowing.

Tolerance of ambiguity is the dance of faith.
Hearing the music of the future — and already dancing to it now.
But what holds us in this tension?
What holds this tension together?

It is not theology that holds us together. It is Christ.
It is not the right kind of piety — no, it is Christ.
It is not the right ethics — it is Christ.
It is not the power of the mighty, nor the misery of the poor;
not the humblest humility or the most fiery faith;
not the greatest knowledge or the most sophisticated arguments.

No — it is Christ alone.

When everything begins to tip over,
call one name: Christ.

It is Christ who saves.
It is Christ who holds everything together.
Christ is the foundation of our tolerance of ambiguity.

Dare More Tolerance of Ambiguity
https://tobiasfaix.de/2022/09/mehr-ambiguitaetstoleranz-wagen/
Tobias Faix, 22 September 2022

ambiguity; the quality or state of allowing more than one interpretation : the quality or state of being ambiguous. A word or expression that can be understood in two or more possible ways : an ambiguous word or expression. Ambiguity (“uncertainty”) and ambidextrous (“using both hands with equal ease”) are connected. Ambiguity (and ambiguous) comes from the Latin ambiguus, which was formed by combining ambi- (meaning “both”) and agere (“to drive”).
https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/ambiguity

Holy Asymmetry: Reimagining Faith in a World of Performance

Chapter 1

“Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will never pass away.” — Mark 13:31

As we step into this new year, we often carry a heavy, silent inventory: Am I doing enough? Am I faithful enough? Am I living “rightly” yet?

These questions reveal how deeply we’ve been colonized by a world of moral symmetry. We are trained to believe in a life of balance—where effort equals reward and failure demands compensation. We try to apply this “moral math” to God, assuming His love operates on a ledger.

Yet, the Gospel offers a holy disruption: “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)

Grace does not wait for alignment. Grace is not a paycheck for a job well done; it is the ground upon which any goodness grows.

The prophetic tension, many of us believe in grace intellectually, but we live as if God relates to us through performance. We treat blessing as a reward and distance as a punishment. When we do this, faith slowly turns into pressure, and discipleship into a quest for self-justification.

Paul’s words in Galatians 2:16 reorder our entire reality: “A person is not justified by the works of the law, but by faith in Jesus Christ.” This doesn’t weaken our call to holiness—it liberates it. Obedience is no longer a currency we spend to get God’s attention; it is a response to the attention He has already given. Justice and compassion are no longer ways to secure favor, but ways to mirror the light we’ve already received.

This year, stop measuring. Stop balancing your worth against your failures. Return to the word that does not pass away—the word that names you beloved long before you are ever transformed.

To a year of living in the smile of God’s asymmetry.
Philemon




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