MONDAY MORNING BLOG

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 24

Reflections on Stillness, Soil and the Sacred in a Sweltering Season
With temperatures soaring well beyond 30 degrees Celsius, the cool of the garden this evening offers more than just relief from the heat. In moments like these, the rustle of leaves, the hum of bees and the scent of growing plants whisper of something ancient and holy. Here, The God of the Garden by Andrew Peterson feels less like a book and more like a conversation under the trees.

Trees Need to Be Still
‘Trees need to be still in order to grow. We need to be still to see that God’s work in and around us is often slow, quiet, patient and steady. It was in this stillness that I sat in the Chapter House, watching creation cycle through its changes through its windows…”

Peterson captures something we often resist: the deep spiritual work that only happens in stillness. Like trees, which remain rooted and wait through the changing seasons, we too are invited to enter the quiet places where change happens beneath the surface. His imagery reminds us that growth doesn’t always manifest as movement. Sometimes it looks like trust.

Gardening as Healing
‘I was literally on my knees with my daughter, planting a seed, because I knew that’s how new life comes. The only way for it to grow is to push it into the mud and wait for the rain…” This moment is more than poetic — it’s sacramental. Peterson’s spirituality, with its dirt under the fingernails, is both earthy and honest. The act of planting becomes a metaphor for suffering, waiting and resurrection. What begins in darkness can still bloom.

Nature & Mental Health
‘After being indoors for hours, the sun on my face and the nearness of growing things rejuvenates me like nothing else.’ There is now scientific evidence to support what our souls already know: we are meant to touch the earth. Peterson even highlights the role of soil microbes in increasing serotonin levels. But beyond that, there’s joy in simply being among growing things.

Redemption through Place and Culture
‘Seeing creation and culture working together feels to me like walking in the Lord’s way. It’s almost as if what is coming to us is not another place, but this place being made new. Made new.’ Here, Peterson echoes theologians such as N. T. Wright in reminding us that the biblical story does not end with escape, but renewal. Our neighbourhoods, our gardens, our pavements – these may one day be woven into the fabric of the new heaven and earth. This changes how we tend to them now.

Reflection on Isolation vs. Solitude:
‘Solitude is a choice. Isolation is inflicted… The pleasure of solitude is not loneliness, but the nearness of love.’ Peterson invites us to rediscover solitude as a presence, not an absence. Not as an escape, but as an encounter.

Final thoughts:
The God of the Garden is not just a book about nature. It is a meditation on what it means to be human: to be rooted in a place; to suffer and hope; to take deep root in God’s good earth. In these sweltering days, perhaps the garden is indeed the best place to encounter Him.
So go outside. Stand barefoot in the grass. Watch a tree. Wait.

He is already there.

Philemon

Chapter 23

It is Monday morning again. Coffee, inbox, plans, prayers for peace. The luxury of order. And then the question: How was your weekend? Did you rest? Recharge? Did you get back to being your optimized, regulated self?

We talk about return as if it’s just a comeback tour. As if it means slipping back into the old routines like last season’s jeans. But what if return isn’t a motion – but a moral moment?

In Rivne, Ukraine, they held a training. “Defender at Home.” It sounded practical, like a safety course or a community project. But it was neither. It was a wake-up call. A soft place to land, wrapped around a hard truth: the war doesn’t end when the soldier returns. It shapeshifts. Moves into our churches. Settles into pews. Sleeps in guest rooms where no one asks too many questions.

Return is not a location

Veterans don’t just return from a place – they return from a reality most of us have never entered. They carry it. Like a second skin. Like an accent you can’t shake. And then they’re told: adapt. Translate. Smile more. Fit in.

We hand them our “peace-time theology” like a welcome mat. We mean well, of course. But our comfort often comes with fine print:

• Tell your story, but not too loud.
• Share your pain, but spare our mood.
• Heal fast, but don’t make us watch.

This is what the training revealed: not the brokenness of the veterans, but the fragility of our frameworks. Of our communities. Of our “pastoral readiness.” We say we believe in resurrection – in bodies that return from death. But we fumble when those bodies sit beside us in church with eyes that have seen more than Sunday sermons.

Presence is not a strategy

They practiced listening – not the kind where you nod until it’s your turn to talk. Real listening. Non-violent communication. Therapeutic silence. Accompaniment without agenda. Radical presence. Just being there.

Sounds simple, right? It’s not. It’s the hardest thing to do in a culture addicted to fixing. We like solutions. Closure. Victory stories. Not ambiguity. Not contradictions. Not wounds that refuse to be packaged neatly.

But veterans aren’t problems to be solved. They’re human beings who have lived through extremes. And maybe, just maybe, they come bearing more truth than our theology has room for.

We want gratitude. They need space.

We drape them in thank-you banners. We label them heroes. We write songs. Sermons. Speeches. But what if our praise becomes another form of control? What if “thank you for your service” is our way of saying “please don’t make us uncomfortable”?

Comfort, after all, is a tricky thing. It can heal or it can silence. It can be a gift or a demand. And often, it’s both at once.

We say: “You’re safe now.”
But we mean: “Please act like it.”
We say: “You’re home.”
But we forget: home is something you build with, not something you deliver to.

The church as a front

There are two fronts: the battlefield and the body of Christ. One is marked by smoke and fire. The other by politeness and powerlessness. But both can wound. Both can kill slowly – with expectation, with silence, with theological slogans and casserole-based empathy.

So here’s the question: Are we ready to be transformed? Not just to host a veteran. But to be undone by their presence. To become a community that stops asking “How do we help them?” and starts asking “What must we become to receive them?”

That requires surrender. Not of values, but of narratives. Of the idea that we are the givers, and they the receivers. That we are the healed, and they the broken. That we are the body, and they are the trauma.

Resurrection isn’t tidy

It comes with wounds. Holes in hands. Ghosts in rooms. Mistaken identities. “Were not our hearts burning?” Yes. And still, we didn’t recognize him.

The veterans are walking among us. Not as symbols. Not as stories. As people. With names. With contradictions. With holy confusion in their eyes.

They don’t need pity. They don’t need applause. They need presence. And they need a church that doesn’t flinch.

So maybe, just maybe, return isn’t their task.
Maybe return is our test.
To be not just welcoming, but witness.
Not just loving, but listening.
Not just peaceful, but present.

Happy Monday. Welcome back.
And this time, let’s mean it.

Your Church, under reconstruction.

Adapted from a message by Taras Dyatlik, written on the 1,215th day of the ongoing full-scale Russian war against Ukraine.
Peace be with you, and keep your children away from war.

🕊️ The Trinity Isn’t a Puzzle — It’s a Dance
Paraphrased and edited from Rev. B. Swan, seeker of the sacred in the strange

Chapter 22

A pastor opens Sunday school:
“Let’s talk about three in one and one in three.”

🥚 First analogy: an egg — shell, white, yolk.
All egg. All God? ❌ Nope. All heresy.
A shell isn’t an egg.

💧 Next? Water, ice, steam. Another classic.
But that’s modalism — God showing up in 3 forms, but never at once.
Ice isn’t steam and water at the same time.

🤔 Be honest — the Trinity can feel like a dusty, inherited doctrine.
Confusing. Patriarchal.
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit?

But hear this:
The Trinity isn’t about theological gymnastics.
It’s about 💗 love.
It’s about 🌿 relationship.
It’s about 🪞 identity.

✨ God is Holy Mystery.
Beyond knowing.
Above easy definition.
Yet in love, God seeks relationship.
From that, everything flows.

🧩 The Trinity isn’t a riddle to solve — it’s love refusing to be flattened.
We say God is One.
We say God is Three.
What we mean is:
God is love.
Wholly. Radically. Relationally.

🌀 Creator. Redeemer. Sustainer.
Source of Life. Living Word. Bond of Love.
No metaphor is enough.
But in the three, we glimpse the One.

🔦 Like a prism turning in light — each angle reveals a truth about God.
To say “God is triune” is to say:

God is not static.
Not distant.
Not locked in creeds.
God is movement. Mutuality. Dance. 💃🏽🕺🏽

And we are invited in.

👶 God creates and calls us beloved.
✝️ God redeems and walks in our woundedness.
🔥 God sustains us with courage and compassion.

God doesn’t want just survival.
God wants flourishing — for all creation.

💥 If you’ve tried to “solve” the Trinity, you’ve likely been frustrated.
One = three? Three = one?

But step back.
What if the Trinity is not a logic problem…
…but an invitation?

God has never been alone.
And you were never meant to be. 🙏

⚖️ The Trinity is unity without uniformity.
Diversity without division.
A relationship where no one is erased — and no one stands alone.

🪞 Your individuality reflects God.
Your voice. Your questions. Your contradictions.
Not flaws — holy design.

🌍 And still, the Trinity doesn’t let us settle.
This dance is a movement of justice.
Of liberation.
Of showing up in a broken world.

💔 God doesn’t just comfort the broken.
God becomes broken.
Thirsts. Weeps.
Not from weakness — but from outrageous love.

😮 The scandal of the Trinity?
That God might need us.
Because love without vulnerability… isn’t love at all.

💞 God is relationship.
And in that divine love, we find our calling.

🕊️ The Trinity isn’t a relic.
It’s the rhythm of love itself.
A pattern we’re invited to follow.

Where difference is delight.
Where justice is embodied.
Where love becomes the shape of God.

👣 If we’re bold enough to join the dance…
We may just find —
There’s room for every single one of us.

Wishing you a great day!
Philemon