The Practical Mystics - On Pots, Pans and the Presence of God

 

The Practical Mystics

On Pots, Pans, and the Presence of God

February 2, 2026

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"God, I look to You, I won't be overwhelmed. Give me vision to see things like You do." — Jenn Johnson, "God I Look to You"

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Yesterday, as I sat down to write in my personal journal (yes, the one with ink and paper), I was reviewing the first month of the year—all the things I got done and all the things I failed to do again.

Looking at the list, both the ones done and not done, I became overwhelmed.

I am a big fan of John Doerr's book Measure What Matters and his approach on why measuring what you're working on helps you refine, isolate, let go, and refine again. But my thoughts, honestly, in this case were suddenly overtaken by another overwhelming awareness—God's love—and a thankfulness that caught me by surprise.

A worship song I remembered by Jenn Johnson flowed through me, and as I wrote, I found myself transcribing its lyrics in my journal.

For those who don't know the origins, "God I Look to You" was written by Jenn Johnson and Ian McIntosh. It is a well-known worship song famously recorded by Jenn Johnson with Bethel Music, originally appearing on the album Be Lifted High. The song was written as a personal declaration of trust.

Here's a TikTok video I found from Jenn explaining the song's origins, and the lyrics below:

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God I Look to You

Verse God, I look to You, I won't be overwhelmed. Give me vision to see things like You do God, I look to You, You're where my help comes from. Give me wisdom; You know just what to do

Chorus I will love You, Lord, my strength I will love You, Lord, my shield I will love You, Lord, my rock forever All my days I will love You, God

Bridge Hallelujah, our God reigns Hallelujah, our God reigns Hallelujah, our God reigns Forever, all my days, Hallelujah

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As the song rose in me and tears flowed—not of sadness but of deep gratitude—I became keenly aware of everything on my plate. But I also recognized a truth: if I look at those things, everything seems overwhelming. Sometimes, even achievements and goals that you complete and are proud of become a burden. Yet, my friends, I know it's a trap that leads to nothing but dissatisfaction and despair.

I played the song on YouTube over and over again as I sank into my reflection chair, journal in hand, rejoicing in the goodness of God.

I've been reading John Eldredge's book Walking with Jesus. He makes pointed arguments about how our age has produced disciples of the Internet (and now AI), where instead of lingering with God, we have trained and discipled our souls for instant answers. In our rush past the wonder and mystery of the Creative Life-Giving God, we have lost the art of being a mystic.

The desert fathers were mystics. From King David to Brother Lawrence, Augustine to Thomas Aquinas—all have shown us the way.

And so my January reflection became a meditation on mystics.

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The Scandal of Ordinary Holiness

"The time of business does not with me differ from the time of prayer; and in the noise and clatter of my kitchen, while several persons are at the same time calling for different things, I possess God in as great tranquility as if I were upon my knees at the Blessed Sacrament." — Brother Lawrence, The Practice of the Presence of God

I have been thinking about mystics lately—but not the mystics of popular imagination. Not those ethereal figures floating above the concerns of daily life, lost in visions and removed from the grit of existence.

I mean the practical mystics. The ones who found God not by escaping the world but by plunging more deeply into it.

Brother Lawrence was a 17th-century Carmelite lay brother assigned to the monastery kitchen. He was not a theologian. He held no ecclesiastical office. He simply washed dishes and prepared meals for his community. And in doing so, he discovered something that eluded many of his more educated contemporaries: the presence of God is not a destination to be reached but a reality to be recognized.

What strikes me most about Brother Lawrence is his insistence that the mundane is the very place where we meet the Divine. He wrote:

"We ought not to be weary of doing little things for the love of God, who regards not the greatness of the work, but the love with which it is performed."

This is scandalous to our achievement-oriented sensibilities. We want mountaintop experiences. We crave the dramatic encounter. We measure what matters and optimize for outcomes. Yet here is a man scrubbing pots who claims to experience God with the same intensity as those in rapturous prayer.

Perhaps this is why that worship song interrupted my productivity review. The mystic knows something the achiever forgets: presence precedes performance.

The Paradox of Knowing

Thomas Aquinas—the towering intellect of medieval Christianity, the man who systematized Christian doctrine with philosophical precision—understood this paradox. For all his brilliance, Aquinas recognized that the spiritual life cannot be reduced to intellectual mastery:

"To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without faith, no explanation is possible."

The mystic does not arrive at God through argument. The mystic arrives at God through attention. Through what Brother Lawrence called "the habitual sense of God's presence." Through choosing, moment by moment, to recognize what is already and always true: that we live and move and have our being in the One who made us (Acts 17:28).

Eldredge is right—we have disciplined ourselves for instant answers. Google it. Ask the AI. Get the information and move on. But the mystics understood that God is not information to be acquired. He is a Person to be encountered. And encounter requires lingering.

G.K. Chesterton, that rotund prophet of common sense and holy wonder, captured something essential about the mystic's way of seeing:

"The mystic allows one thing to be mysterious, and everything else becomes lucid... The determinist makes the theory of causation quite clear, and then finds that he cannot say 'if you please' to the housemaid."

I love this. The person who demands total intellectual clarity on ultimate questions ends up confused about ordinary life. But the mystic—the one who holds the great Mystery with open hands—finds that everyday reality becomes vivid, coherent, charged with meaning.

Chesterton elsewhere observed:

"The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits."

The practical mystic does not try to contain God within a system. The practical mystic simply practices presence. Washes the dishes. Prepares the meal. Write the email. Attends the meeting. Reviews the January goals. And in each ordinary moment, chooses attention over distraction, presence over absence, love over mere duty.

What Aquinas Knew

Aquinas spent his life building one of the most elaborate intellectual structures in Christian history—the Summa Theologica, a cathedral of the mind. Yet near the end of his life, after a profound mystical experience during Mass, he stopped writing entirely. When pressed to continue, he reportedly said:

"All that I have written seems like straw to me."

This was not despair. This was proportion. Aquinas had glimpsed something that made even his greatest intellectual achievements seem small by comparison. He had moved from knowing about God to knowing God.

Brother Lawrence never wrote a Summa. He wrote letters to friends and had conversations that were later compiled by others. Yet both men arrived at the same destination: the recognition that God is not primarily an idea to be understood but a Presence to be enjoyed.

The Invitation

What draws me to these practical mystics is their insistence that holiness is available now, here, in this moment. Not after we complete another quarter's OKRs. Not when we finally have time for an extended retreat. Not once we've checked every item off the list.

Now. In the kitchen. In the commute. In the meeting that runs long, and the email that interrupts. In the January review that suddenly becomes a worship service.

Brother Lawrence again:

"That we ought to act with God in the greatest simplicity, speaking to Him frankly and plainly, and imploring His assistance in our affairs, just as they happen."

Just as they happen. Not in some idealized future state. Not in carefully curated spiritual moments. But in the raw, unedited flow of actual life.

This is the mystic's secret: heaven is not elsewhere. The Kingdom is at hand. The question is simply whether we have eyes to see it.

My friends, I don't know what February holds. I don't know how many items will get checked off my list or how many will roll over yet again. But I know this: if I look to those things, I will be overwhelmed. If I look to Him, I will find my strength, my shield, my rock.

All my days, I will love You, God.

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Lord of pots and pans and things, since I've no time to be a saint by doing lovely things, or watching late with Thee, or dreaming in the dawnlight, or storming heaven's gates, make me a saint by getting meals and washing up the plates.

— Prayer attributed to Brother Lawrence

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Shalom,

Dr. Sam Kurien

The Covenant Sign: Circumcision

Brokenness, Grace, and the God Who Sees
January 19, 2026

"I am God Almighty; walk before me faithfully and be blameless."

— Genesis 17:1 (NIV)

As I journey through Genesis again, I find myself struck by an uncomfortable theme: the intertwining of human brokenness with divine faithfulness. The patriarchal narratives do not present sanitized heroes but deeply flawed men and women through whom God, in His extraordinary patience, works out His redemptive purposes. These ancient stories reveal both the depth of our fallen nature and the heights of God's grace—a grace extending to every nation and every wandering stranger.

Abraham, Hagar, and the Failure of Faith

Abraham received one of Scripture's most magnificent promises: "I will make you into a great nation... and all peoples on earth will be blessed through you" (Genesis 12:2-3). Yet as the promise lingered unfulfilled, trust wavered. Sarah and Abram sought to manufacture fulfillment themselves, turning to Hagar—an Egyptian servant, a foreigner, an immigrant—and using her as an instrument for their own ends.

We must pause to consider Hagar's position. She was a woman with no voice, no power, no choice—doubly marginalized as a woman and as a foreigner. The exploitation she suffered at the hands of the family chosen to bless all nations stands as a sobering indictment of what our fallen nature produces even among the elect.

After Ishmael's birth, Scripture records a striking silence: God does not speak to Abram for thirteen years. When Yahweh finally appears, His words cut to the heart: "Walk before me faithfully and be blameless." The Hebrew tamim—whole, complete—echoes the description of Noah, who "walked faithfully with God" (Genesis 6:9). God was calling Abram back to righteousness.

The God Who Sees the Immigrant

Meanwhile, the abuse Hagar suffered led her to flee into the wilderness—a pregnant woman, alone, vulnerable. It is here we encounter one of Scripture's most tender moments. The angel of the Lord found her and spoke to her directly—something extraordinary in the ancient world.

"She gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: 'You are the God who sees me,' for she said, 'I have now seen the One who sees me.'"

— Genesis 16:13 (NIV)

El Roi—the God who sees. This Egyptian immigrant, exploited and cast aside by the family of promise, becomes the first person in Scripture to give God a name. A foreign woman with no standing encountered the living God in her distress, and He responded with compassion. The God of Abraham was also the God of Hagar—the God who hears the cry of the immigrant, the outcast, the forgotten.

The Sign of the Covenant

It is precisely here—after the failure with Hagar, after thirteen years of silence—that God institutes circumcision as the covenant sign. The significance cannot be overlooked. God commanded the cutting of the very flesh used in the act of exploitation. This was not arbitrary; it was deeply meaningful—a sign of consecration, a physical reminder that the promised seed would come through divine intervention, not human scheming.

The Covenant Sign Perverted

Fast forward two generations. Dinah, the daughter of Jacob, was violated by Shechem. What followed reveals the terrible capacity of the human heart to twist sacred things into weapons. When Shechem came to negotiate marriage, Jacob's sons—Simeon and Levi—demanded that all the men of the city be circumcised. The men agreed, and "while all of them were still in pain, two of Jacob's sons... attacked the unsuspecting city, killing every male" (Genesis 34:25).

The very sign of God's covenant—intended to mark a people set apart for blessing—became an instrument of massacre. A family destined to bring reconciliation to all peoples brought slaughter instead. Jacob pronounced judgment on his deathbed: "Simeon and Levi are brothers—their swords are weapons of violence... Cursed be their anger, so fierce!" (Genesis 49:5, 7).

Notably absent is Dinah's voice. We never hear her speak. The biblical author records this painful reality not to endorse it but to expose it—inviting us to grieve what sin has wrought and to long for God's restoration.

Why Scripture Shows Us This Brokenness

This reflection is not a criticism of the patriarchs but an engagement with the text as the biblical author presents it. Scripture does not hide its heroes' failures; it displays them plainly. Why? I believe the sacred authors draw our attention to such discomfort for two purposes: that we might understand the heart of God—His patience, His mercy, His persistent love—and that we might learn to walk blamelessly before Him.

"Righteousness and justice are the foundation of your throne; love and faithfulness go before you."

— Psalm 89:14 (NIV)

The same King whose throne rests on righteousness extends beautiful mercies and forgiveness. He works through and in our brokenness to make us whole. This is the paradox of grace.

Paul and the Circumcision of the Heart

The sign of circumcision became much debated in the early church. As Gentiles came to faith in Messiah Yeshua, Jewish believers wrestled with fundamental questions: Must these new believers bear the covenant sign?

Paul received a revolutionary insight: "A person is not a Jew who is one only outwardly, nor is circumcision merely outward and physical. No, a person is a Jew who is one inwardly; and circumcision is circumcision of the heart, by the Spirit" (Romans 2:28-29). The outward cutting means nothing if the heart remains unchanged. What God always desired was internal transformation.

This was not new but fulfillment of what Moses prophesied: "The Lord your God will circumcise your hearts and the hearts of your descendants, so that you may love him with all your heart" (Deuteronomy 30:6). To the Galatians, Paul declared: "Neither circumcision nor uncircumcision means anything; what counts is the new creation" (Galatians 6:15).

The new covenant in Yeshua demands a higher standard—transformation from within by the Spirit. And this Gospel is for Jew and Gentile alike: "Through the gospel the Gentiles are heirs together with Israel, members together of one body" (Ephesians 3:6). The dividing wall is demolished. Those once "foreigners to the covenants of the promise" have been "brought near by the blood of Christ" (Ephesians 2:12-13).

The War Within and the Grace That Empowers

Here we arrive at a profound truth: as long as we inhabit these earthly bodies, the born-again believer will experience an internal war. Paul testified: "I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing... Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death? Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!" (Romans 7:19, 24-25).

But this is not cause for despair—it is cause for dependence. The struggle is by design. Our victory does not come through willpower alone but through the empowering grace of God working in us. "Continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purpose" (Philippians 2:12-13). Our effort and God's grace are partners. Our response in partnership with the Spirit brings Heaven's will to earth—His heart, His goodness in us, around us, and for others.

A Prayer for Blameless Walking

O Faithful Father,
You are El Roi—the God who sees the immigrant, the outcast, the forgotten.
Circumcise our hearts by Your Spirit,
that we may walk before You faithfully and be blameless.
Work in us and through us to bring Your blessing to all nations,
and may we never twist Your sacred gifts into weapons of our own making.
In Jesus' name,
Amen.

Shalom & thoughts this morning,

Dr. Sam Kurien

The Sacred Hunger

The Sacred Hunger

David, the Magi, and the Pursuit of the King

January 2, 2026

"As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God?"

— Psalm 42:1-2

In my reflection yesterday and in my personal journal, I wrote my first few thoughts for 2026. I found myself drawn to King David—his relentless hunger for knowing God, his passionate love for Yahweh, and His ways. David was, above all else, a God-conscious man. His life was not merely touched by the divine; it was utterly invaded and conquered by the Holy One of Israel.

A few observations have crystallized as I translate my personal notes into this digital format. What emerges is a profound connection between two seemingly disparate seekers: the shepherd-king of Israel and the wise men from the East—both united by an unquenchable thirst for the King.

David: The Man Who Demanded God Invade His Heart

"You, God, are my God, earnestly I seek you; I thirst for you, my whole being longs for you, in a dry and parched land where there is no water."

— Psalm 63:1

When other poets loved nature and saw God reflected in its beauty, David loved God and beheld His marvelous works displayed through creation. The distinction is everything. Where Wordsworth and the Romantic poets found the divine within nature itself, David found nature to be but a canvas upon which the glory of its Maker was painted. In my estimation, the English nature poets—however brilliant—are not worthy to tie the sandal straps of Israel's shepherd-poet.

What set David apart was not merely poetic sensibility but a hunger so consuming that it demanded Yahweh invade and conquer his heart. And God certainly did. The Almighty took this young shepherd and transformed him into a mighty man after His own heart—a remarkable designation found nowhere else in Scripture.

"After removing Saul, he made David their king. God testified concerning him: 'I have found David son of Jesse, a man after my own heart; he will do everything I want him to do.'"

— Acts 13:22

The Book of Acts gives loving testimony to Israel's warrior-poet and philosopher-king. We read that David "served God's purpose in his own generation" (Acts 13:36). What a tribute—to fulfill all that was in God's heart during one's appointed time on earth.

David was a shepherd boy, perhaps more self-taught than one who enjoyed the halls of higher learning. Yet his hunger and love for God invited the Holy One to train and teach him. God Himself became David's tutor, preparing him to become the future king, the anointed one who would receive an incredible promise: that the Messiah-King would be born through his lineage to redeem the world. David made an indelible mark upon the heart of God.

"One thing I ask from the Lord, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze on the beauty of the Lord and to seek him in his temple."

— Psalm 27:4

The Magi: Gentile Seekers Who Found the King

"After Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the east came to Jerusalem and asked, 'Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.'"

— Matthew 2:1-2

In my Gospel reading in Matthew, I am equally struck by the visit of the Magi—the wise men from the East who saw His star and were compelled by an inexorable hunger to find Him and worship Him. Consider the profound mystery here: these wise men were Gentiles, aliens to the promises of Israel, strangers to the covenant inheritance of faith and learning that God's chosen people had received over millennia.

Yet they saw the star.

With only that singular celestial signal—no Torah, no prophets, no sacred tradition—they set out on an incredible journey into the unknown. They acted in faith and faithfulness upon scanty knowledge and found the Messiah. Where the religious elite of Jerusalem remained comfortably ignorant, these foreign seekers traversed deserts and dangers to bow before a child in Bethlehem.

"When they saw the star, they were overjoyed. On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother, Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasures and presented him with gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh."

— Matthew 2:10-11

The Magi's journey reveals a stunning truth: hunger for God transcends theological credentials. Their seeking hearts carried them further than the scribes' encyclopedic knowledge of Scripture ever moved them.

The Price of Neglect

A.W. Tozer articulated this truth masterfully in his essay "The Price of Neglect":

"A longing soul with scanty theological knowledge is in a better position to meet God than a self-satisfied soul, however deeply instructed in the Scriptures."

This is the thread that binds David and the Magi across a thousand years of history. Both possessed what mere religion cannot manufacture: sacred hunger.

The Sacred Hunger That Invites Transformation

Why do I correlate David and the Magi? Because deep hunger for the Lord invites Him to meet us and cause our transformation through worship and the encounter of His presence. David's hunger led to a heart after God's own. The Magi's hunger led them to the feet of the King of Kings. Both found what they sought because they sought with everything they had.

"And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit."

— 2 Corinthians 3:18

This is the divine economy: we seek, He reveals; we hunger, He satisfies; we worship, He transforms. The hunger itself becomes the invitation for Heaven to invade our ordinary lives.

The Word for 2026: God's Faithfulness

The word impressed upon my heart for this year is God's faithfulness. He who has called us is faithful, and He will complete the work He has begun in us.

"The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do it."

— 1 Thessalonians 5:24

"Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."

— Philippians 1:6

His faithfulness enables and empowers us in grace to be faithful. We do not generate our own consistency—we receive it as gift from the One who is Himself unchanging. As we lean into His faithfulness, we find the strength to remain steadfast in our own pursuit of Him.

A Prayer for Sacred Hunger

O Faithful Father,

Create in me by Your indwelling Spirit the hunger that David knew,

the hunger that drove the Magi across deserts to find Your Son.

Tune my soul and senses to lean into Your faithfulness,

that as I worship You, I may be transformed daily into Your likeness.

May I serve Your purpose in my generation,

and at the end of my days, may it be said that I sought You with all my heart.

Amen.

Shalom,

Dr. Sam Kurien

Yours, O Lord, is the day. Yours also is the night.

Yesterday we had Christmas brunch at our President's house. The warm hospitality of Dr. Husbands and Becky, and their generous spirits, give me continued hope and role models for how Christian lives are lived out in the warmth of encouragement, blessing, and fellowship for greater causes the Lord has called us to.  Both of them model this, and the executive team received a liturgical devotional book titled "Every Moment Holy".   I started reading it and have been glued to it, and the author Douglas McKlevey's words from one particular liturgy for the "One who works the night shift" spoke to me in my quiet time this morning. Having, in the past, managed teams globally after a day job at night, this resonates somehow... though the prayers are so good they could work for all laborers, day or night. Both belong to the Lord :) 

Yours, O Lord, is the day. Yours also is the night. 

While others have moved through
The work of the day, I have slept, keeping a counter rhythm
as the bustled hummed around me. 

Now, as the day declines and I rise,
Bless the rest I have had, O Lord,
and multiply its effects in my body,
For I am weary, and the fog of sleepiness seems always to hang about me. 

The edges fray, O Lord, for I am one
who keeps time in two worlds:
a hand in the day,
a hand in the night, 
circling, circling.
The evening is as morning to me, and the morning marks the dawn of the night. 

But all hours you are with me.
At all hours, you are at once working and resting as you rule over your creation.
Somehow, by the mysterious working of your Holy Spirit, let me be at work and also
at rest in you this night. 

O Christ Our Light, 
all hours belong to you.
You made the sun to rule the day and the moon to govern the night. 

Help me to find an ally in the moon-
that light that shines because it mirrors
a greater light. May my own life reflect,
however partially, you, O Light of the World. 

Often, work is itself a mirror,
reflecting to me something about myself
I would not otherwise notice.
Help me to see myself more honestly,
both my strengths and my weaknesses,
and to trust that you are at work in my life
As I work this night. 

Yours O Lord,m is the day,
Yours also is the night. 

And I pray you would meet me, O Lord,
As you often meet your children,
in the night hours:

Under a dark sky, you gave
Abraham your promise
All night long, Jacob wrestled with you to receive a blessing. 
Nicodemus came to you under the cover of darkness,
Lord Christ, seeking to know you better.
And you, Jesus, labored in prayer through the night
and knew the loneliness of those hours:
       "Watch with me," you said.
Even you had to steel yourself for the work
That was yours to do. 

And so, I join the company of those who have gone
before me into the labor of the night hours,
which is also the vigil.
May my work be prayer, and in and through it
May I keep company with you, Lord Christ?

Be with me and my beloved ones (my insert)
O Christ, for the work of this night.
Bless them and keep them.
Make your face shine upon them.
And be gracious to them.
Turn your face towards us and give us your Shalom.

I lift to you the work ahead, that which is known, 
and that which is unknown to me. 

There is nothing that comes tonight (or this morn/day)
That is a surprise to you; all is known to you.
So I entrust myself to you, Lord God:
Heart, soul, mind, and strength. 

I trust you with those I love, from whom?
I am absent as I work. Bless their day or sleep that they enjoy,
Keep watch over them while I am away. When they feel afraid 
or are gripped by worry for my well-being
and are tempted to imagine the worst,
May your Spirit minister comfort, like
a warm hand on their back. 

And when we feel the pain of aloneness begotten by our opposite schedules,
May we find a way to turn toward one another, reach through the fatigue, and
show each other loving attention and gentleness. 

Grant me then the grace to be ware of your faithful presence: You who are always at once working
and resting as you rule over your creation.
And when the daylight comes,
Help me receive from your sleep, I need.
to wake at nightfall (or in the morn), and again
keep watch with you. 

Yours, O Lord, is the day.
Yours also is the night. 

Amen Amen  

May this prayer be a blessing to you as it has been for me. Dr. Sam Kurien

The Ancient Enemy: What Bondi Beach Reveals About a Battle That Never Ended

 The Ancient Enemy: What Bondi Beach Reveals About a Battle That Never Ended

The images from Bondi Beach stopped me cold. Jewish families celebrating Hanukkah—the Festival of Lights—were attacked in broad daylight in Australia. Not in some conflict zone. Not in a dark alley. On a beach, in December, in one of the most cosmopolitan cities on earth.

We're witnessing something that defies purely sociological explanation.

Antisemitism is surging globally, and while hatred against any people group demands our complete condemnation and swift action, there's something uniquely persistent about this particular hatred. Something that has survived every civilization, every century, every attempt at eradication. As someone who studies patterns and root causes, I've come to believe this isn't merely a matter of cultural inheritance or political positioning. There's a spiritual dimension operating here that transcends rational analysis.

An Old Story Made New

This morning in church, the reading came from Exodus 17, and I couldn't escape the parallel. The Amalekites attacked the children of Israel as they emerged into the wilderness—specifically targeting the weak and vulnerable at the rear of the procession. Then came a second assault at Rephidim. This wasn't opportunistic raiding. This was systematic hatred aimed at annihilation.

God's response reveals something profound about His character: He declared He would wipe out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. The Almighty—patient, merciful, slow to anger—drew a line. There are forms of evil that provoke divine judgment precisely because they prey on the defenseless.

But here's what strikes me about this account. The battle wasn't won by Moses alone on the mountain, or Joshua alone in the valley. Victory required partnership—warriors fighting, intercessors praying, and Aaron and Hur holding up weary arms when Moses could no longer sustain them himself. God orchestrated triumph through collaboration, not isolation.

The Consequences of Incomplete Obedience

The story doesn't end in Exodus. It never does.

Centuries later, King Saul received explicit instructions to finish what Israel started—to eliminate the Amalekite threat completely. He failed. He spared King Agag, who fled to Shushan in Persia. Fast forward again. Haman the Agagite—a direct descendant of the king Saul should have executed—rises to power and engineers a plot to exterminate every Jew in the Persian Empire. The seed of Amalek, preserved through disobedience, became an existential threat once more. This is the pattern that haunts me: mercy extended to evil that refuses transformation becomes mercy weaponized against the innocent. God's patience creates space for repentance. When that space is exploited rather than honored, the consequences compound across generations.

The Vulnerability Factor

There's another thread in Exodus 17 worth examining. Just before the Amalekite attack, the Israelites were complaining about thirst. Their hearts had shifted from grumbling to contending—from frustration to pride. It was precisely in this moment of spiritual vulnerability that the enemy struck. I've seen this pattern in organizational leadership, in personal struggles, in spiritual warfare. The enemy doesn't attack when we're strong and vigilant. He waits for exhaustion, for distraction, for the moment when our defenses drop and our hearts turn inward.

The wilderness wasn't just a geographic location for Israel. It was a crucible that revealed what was inside them. And it's in our own wilderness seasons—when physical, emotional, or spiritual resources run thin—that we're most susceptible to attacks we'd otherwise deflect.

The Cost of Silence

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, writing from the heart of Nazi Germany, understood something about complicity: "Silence in the face of evil is itself evil: God will not hold us guiltless. Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act."

Martin Luther King Jr. echoed this insight from a different vantage point: "The ultimate tragedy is not the oppression and cruelty by the bad people but the silence over that by the good people."

Both men paid for these convictions with their lives.

The battle against antisemitism—and against hatred in all its forms—isn't fought only by those on the front lines. It's fought by those who refuse to look away. By those who speak when silence would be easier. By those who, like Aaron and Hur, position themselves to strengthen weary arms.

Raising the Banner

Exodus 17 closes with Moses building an altar and naming it *Yahweh-Nissi*—"The Lord Is My Banner." Then comes this declaration: "The Lord will have war with Amalek from generation to generation."

This isn't fatalism. It's clarity. Some battles persist across ages because the enemy's hatred endures. The question isn't whether we'll face this ancient adversary. The question is whether we'll stand.

Edmund Burke reportedly said, "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." Whether those exact words were his or not, the sentiment has proven true across every generation that's been tested.

The Jewish families on Bondi Beach weren't asking for special treatment. They were lighting candles and celebrating their heritage. They were doing what their ancestors had done for thousands of years, despite every attempt to stop them.

Our response—intercession, advocacy, solidarity, and refusing the comfort of silence—isn't peripheral to our faith. It's the substance of it. God invites us into partnership with His purposes, and those purposes have always included defending the vulnerable and standing against darkness.

The Lord is still my banner. And this war continues from generation to generation.

The question is simply this: which side of the battle line will we stand on?

Thoughts this Sunday morning - 

Shalom

Dr. Sam Kurien

Grace: More Than Forgiveness

 Grace: More Than Forgiveness

I love the hymn "Amazing Grace." I'm sure millions do. There's a reason it has endured for over 250 years and crossed every cultural and denominational boundary imaginable. John Newton wrote it from the wreckage of his own story—a former slave trader who encountered a mercy so profound it rewrote his entire identity. The opening line captures something we all instinctively know: grace found us when we were lost, blind, wandering. It saved us.

But here's what strikes me every time I sing it: Newton didn't stop at forgiveness. The hymn moves forward—grace that taught his heart to fear, then relieved those fears. Grace that brought him safe thus far, and grace that will lead him home. Newton understood that grace wasn't a one-time rescue. It was an ongoing empowerment, a presence that carried him through every season that followed his conversion.

We often reduce grace to a transaction—God overlooking what we've done wrong. And while that's gloriously true, it's not the whole story. Grace isn't just God's unmerited favor. It's His empowering presence that enables you to become the person He sees when He looks at you.

The Father doesn't just forgive your failures and walk away. He provides grace—His actual power and enabling—to help you live from your new nature and grow into your full identity in Christ.

This is why Paul, when pleading for relief from his "thorn in the flesh," received a response that reframed everything: "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness" (2 Corinthians 12:9). God wasn't simply tolerating Paul's struggle. He was meeting it with something more substantial than removal—His own empowering presence in the midst of it.

Here's what I love about God's heart: Grace isn't just about getting what you don't deserve. It's about receiving supernatural ability to do what you couldn't do in your own strength—to love like Him, respond like Him, and live like Him.

Peter understood this when he wrote that God's divine power "has given us everything we need for a godly life" (2 Peter 1:3). Everything. Not most things. Not a good start. Grace isn't God handing you a moral framework and wishing you luck. It's God supplying the very capacity to live what He's called you to.

When you face situations that feel beyond your capacity, remember: Grace isn't just God being nice about your limitations. It's God providing His unlimited resources to meet your need in that exact moment. The writer of Hebrews invites us to "approach God's throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need" (Hebrews 4:16). Grace shows up precisely when and where you need it most.

The beautiful reality: You don't have to try harder to be a better Christian. You get to receive more grace—more of God's empowering presence—and let His strength become your strength. Paul discovered this paradox and embraced it entirely: "I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me" (2 Corinthians 12:9). Your inadequacy isn't a barrier to grace. It's the very condition that makes grace possible.

Newton spent the rest of his life as a pastor and abolitionist, advocating fiercely against the very trade that had once defined him. That's what grace does—it doesn't just pardon who you were. It empowers who you're becoming.

But Newton’s story doesn't end with his own transformation. In 1785, a young parliamentarian named William Wilberforce—brilliant, ambitious, and newly converted—was wrestling with whether to leave politics for ministry. He sought counsel from the aging Newton, now in his sixties and nearly blind. Newton's advice changed history: stay in Parliament. Use your position. The same grace that had redeemed a slave ship captain could empower a politician to dismantle the entire system.

For the next twenty years, Wilberforce fought relentlessly, enduring ridicule, exhaustion, and repeated defeats. Newton's influence and mentorship sustained him through the darkest seasons. When the slave trade was finally abolished in the British Empire in 1807—nearly six decades before America would follow—Newton was on his deathbed. He lived just long enough to see the first fruits of what grace had begun in his own broken life.

Think about that. The grace that saved a wretch like Newton didn't just transform one man. It rippled outward—through friendship, mentorship, and persistent encouragement—until it toppled an empire's economy of human trafficking. Wilberforce himself would later reflect that without Newton's pastoral care during his crisis of calling, he might have abandoned the very platform God had given him.

This is the compounding nature of grace. It doesn't stay contained in the person who receives it. It overflows. It empowers. It shapes history. The Puritan Thomas Watson captured this beautifully: "Grace and glory differ very little; the one is the seed, the other is the flower; grace is glory militant, glory is grace triumphant." Newton and Wilberforce lived out grace militant—fighting, persevering, enduring defeat after defeat, sustained not by their own resolve but by a power greater than themselves. The same grace that meets you in your weakness today is glory in seed form, already at work, already pressing toward its full bloom.

Kingdom Routine for today: When you feel overwhelmed or inadequate, pause and ask: "God, what grace do You want to give me for this situation? How do you want to empower me to respond from your nature instead of my limitations?"

Grace isn't just God's kindness toward your past—it's His power for your present and future.

Shalom,

Dr. Sam Kurien

Meditating on "Joy"

 When my daughter Abigail was born, I did what many fathers do—I researched her name. In Western contexts, Abigail is often translated as "Father's Joy," which is beautiful enough. But the deeper etymology tells a richer story.

Abigail comes from two Hebrew words: Avi (father) and Gael (joy). The meaning isn't "Father's Joy" as in something the father possesses. It's "Her Father is Joy." Yahweh is Joy. Joy isn't a character trait He possesses—it's who He is.

That distinction has stayed with me.

I'm writing this from Southeast Asia, where I've traveled to visit my father in South India. He's 91 now, facing the realities that come with age—health challenges, the slow loss of muscle mass, the quiet indignities of a body that no longer cooperates the way it once did. Watching him navigate this season has stirred something in me. In the midst of the anxieties that accompany these visits—the weight of distance, the uncertainty of time, the ache of watching a parent grow frail—my mind keeps returning to this question of joy. Not as an escape from what I'm feeling, but as an anchor through it.

Some Thoughts on Joy

Joy isn't dependent on your circumstances being perfect. Joy is the supernatural gladness that comes from knowing you're deeply loved, never alone, and that God is working everything together for your good.

This is why James opens his letter with what sounds like madness: "Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of various kinds" (James 1:2). He's not suggesting we enjoy suffering. He's pointing us to something deeper—that trials produce perseverance, and perseverance shapes us into people who lack nothing (James 1:3-4). Joy becomes possible in difficulty because God is doing something through it.

The Father doesn't withhold joy until your problems are solved or your life gets easier. His Joy is available in the midst of challenges because it flows from His unchanging character and His delight in relationship with you.

Peter understood this paradox intimately. Writing to believers scattered by persecution—people who had lost homes, livelihoods, and safety—he describes them as those who "rejoice with an inexpressible and glorious joy" even while suffering grief in all kinds of trials (1 Peter 1:6-8). How? Because they loved Someone they hadn't seen. Their joy wasn't anchored in circumstances but in a relationship with the living Christ.

Joy isn't about pretending everything is fine or forcing a smile through pain. It's about accessing the deep, unshakeable gladness that comes from your secure position in God's love. Peter calls this inheritance "imperishable, undefiled, and unfading" (1 Peter 1:4). No trial can touch it.

Here's the beautiful reality: You can experience genuine sorrow about circumstances AND supernatural joy about your relationship with God at the same time. Joy doesn't cancel out human emotions—it provides a foundation underneath them. Peter's audience was grieving (1 Peter 1:6). James acknowledged the weight of trials. Neither pretended the pain wasn't real.

When life feels heavy, joy reminds you that this isn't the end of your story. When circumstances feel overwhelming, joy points you to the God who is bigger than any situation you're facing. James promises that those who persevere under trial will receive "the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him" (James 1:12). Peter assures us that the genuineness of our faith—tested by fire—will result in "praise, glory, and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed" (1 Peter 1:7).

Kingdom Routine for today: When joy feels distant, ask God: "What brings You joy about our relationship right now? How do you see this situation I'm facing? Help me access the joy that comes from being Your beloved child."

Joy isn't the absence of difficulty—it's the presence of God's gladness in every season.

Shalom,

Dr. Sam Kurien

The Perilous Hope of a Works-Based Heaven

President Trump recently commented that he was trying to "get to heaven" and that his efforts to end the war in Ukraine would be one of the reasons. While many were quick to point out the flawed theology of his statement, it highlights a deeply concerning and widespread belief, even among many who identify as Christians: the dangerous idea of a works-based salvation.

The shocking reality is that this view is not an outlier. As John Stonestreet of the Colson Center notes in a recent Breakpoint commentary, citing a 2020 American Worldview Inventory, nearly half of all Americans believe that if a person is "generally good" or does enough good things, they can “earn” a place in Heaven. This is a dangerous theological drift, a complete abandonment of the Gospel of grace for a false gospel of human effort. This troubling trend is fully consistent with other beliefs infiltrating the church. According to the annual "State of Theology Study" from Ligonier Ministries and LifeWay Research, a majority of evangelicals deny the doctrine of original sin, a belief that completely undermines the need for a savior. A staggering number also believe that God accepts the worship of all religions, a direct contradiction of Jesus's own exclusive claim in John 14:6: “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.”

We must remember that the hope of heaven is not based on what we do, but on what Christ has already done. The Bible is clear on this. Ephesians 2:8-9 tells us, “For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast.”

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A Story of Humble Admission

The Hapsburgs, a family that ruled over a large portion of Europe for centuries, had a powerful funeral tradition that beautifully illustrates this very truth. While often cited as an ancient rite, the famous three-knock ceremony, where a master of ceremonies is denied entry to the crypt for the deceased's royal titles and accomplishments, is a more recent addition. It was first publicly performed in its modern form for the funeral of Empress Zita in 1989 and then again for her son, Otto von Habsburg, in 2011.

At the funeral procession, the master of ceremonies would knock three times on the doors of the Capuchin Church, where the Imperial Crypt is located. From within, a Capuchin friar would ask, "Who desires entry?" The master of ceremonies would first read a long list of the deceased's imperial titles and dignities. The friar would reply, "We do not know him." The master would knock again, this time listing the deceased's great political and academic achievements. "We do not know him!" the voice from within would repeat. Finally, after a third knock, the master of ceremonies would state the truth: "A mortal, sinful man." Only then would the doors swing open, allowing the body of the once-great ruler to be laid to rest.

This humble ceremony, though a more modern tradition, serves as a powerful and timeless metaphor for the Christian belief that our earthly titles and accomplishments, no matter how great, are ultimately meaningless before God. Our only hope for entry into His presence is through a humble recognition of our sinful nature and reliance on His mercy. As Romans 3:23 says, "for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God." The true hope of heaven is not found in our works but in the finished work of Jesus Christ on the cross. It is the Good News that Babylon Bee so accurately, and non-satirically, captured in their headline: “God Agrees To Let Trump Into Heaven If He Repents Of His Sin And Trusts In Jesus Christ Alone For Salvation.” This is the only path. The only hope. It is grace alone, through faith alone, in Christ alone.

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Sources:

• Stonestreet, John. "President Trump and the Hope of Heaven." Breakpoint, Breakpoint.org.

• Ligonier Ministries and LifeWay Research. "The State of Theology Study."

• Various historical accounts of the Habsburg funeral rituals, specifically those of Empress Zita (1989) and Otto von Habsburg (2011).

• Various Bible verses from the books of John, Ephesians, and Romans.

• Image created with DallE

Walking in your Calling - Is actually unveiled as you walk with Him

We live in a world overflowing with books, articles, TED Talks, and—yes—even blog posts like this one, all urging us to “find our purpose,” “live our calling,” and “make a dent in the universe.” It’s a message relentlessly echoed by thought leaders, preachers, influencers, and armchair philosophers on social media. While some of their wisdom has merit, the sheer volume often leaves the modern-day pilgrim overwhelmed, confused, and discouraged. I am not discounting either when God also calls certain people to singular purposes/calling miraculously for the saving of many - Joseph, Moses, Paul the list in history is long as well... but for the majority of us its not often easy to find our calling as we go through umpteen transitions in life be it mini, micro or macro level shifts. 

During my quiet time this morning, I found myself drawn to Psalm 81, particularly verse 10:
"I am the Lord your God who brought you out of Egypt. Open wide your mouth and I will fill it."

We all experience our own versions of Egypt—seasons of wilderness, disorientation, or pain. And yet, it’s in these very places that God draws near. He brings us out, fills us, sustains us, and walks with us—if we allow Him to. The key isn't striving for purpose but participating in His work through surrendered partnership.

This reflection led me to consider the culture we’ve created around "calling." We often chase it like a career objective, a singular mission, or some grand impact we’re meant to have. But what if calling isn’t about a job title, a platform, or making a mark that the world recognizes?

What if we’ve missed the point?

Don’t get me wrong—I’ve read the books, followed the steps, and admired the wisdom of those who’ve gone before me. Their guidance has shaped parts of my journey. But tonight, I find myself longing for something deeper: to live and breathe in such a way that God’s nature flows through me—wherever I am, in whatever role or season I find myself.

The Father’s plans aren’t about perfect decisions; they’re about perfecting intimacy. His desire is for a relationship, not performance. As we walk with Him, He slowly forms our convictions and builds our character—sometimes through leaps forward, sometimes through the humbling process of unlearning.

Here’s the quiet revelation I’m sitting with tonight:

Calling unfolds as we walk with God. Not as we strategize, optimize, or overanalyze our way into significance.

Every season, every role, every misstep and relationship—whether “right” or “wrong”—becomes sacred ground where the Spirit teaches us His ways and reveals the image we are being transformed into. I think of Eustace from C.S. Lewis’s Voyage of the Dawn Treader—his transformation was slow, painful, but necessary. The scales had to come off before he could become who he truly was.

I’ve wrestled often with the agony of significance, and I admit, it’s mostly self-inflicted—comparison and competition can do that. But here’s the freeing truth: I’m not behind. I’m not late. I haven’t missed my calling.

I am a child of God, right where I need to be.
Partnering with Him.
Becoming the kind of person who reveals His heart.

So maybe the better question isn’t “What is my calling?” but rather:
“Lord, how can I partner with You today?”
“What aspect of your character do you want to form in me now?”

Holy Spirit, help me represent Your heart in this season—faithfully, humbly, and fully.
Let me love Jesus the way the saints and beloved ones before me did.

Shalom and blessings,
Dr. Sam Kurien

Thoughts in this Lent Season - John 13

 In the Gospel of John, chapter 13, Jesus washes the feet of His disciples before celebrating the Passover. He had long desired to share this meal with them one last time before going to the Cross to fulfill the Father’s will—to reconcile us to Himself. It wasn’t just the physical pain that weighed on Him, but the deeper anguish of being separated from the Father for the sake of humanity. He was about to take on betrayal, sin, and shame—not His own, but ours.

As I read this passage again, I felt transported back into that upper room. Jesus, fully aware of what was coming, poured out His love on the disciples one more time as He gently washed their feet. In those verses, I felt the love of the Savior anew—and I was reminded of how deeply I need His love again. I need His washing, His cleansing, and above all, His Holy Spirit to strengthen me—to love Him with all that I am, with power and resilience when I’m faced with the same choice: to choose Him above all the other loves that compete for my heart and so easily lead me into betrayal.

Peter loved Jesus passionately, yet in the moment of testing, he failed. Our Lord knew how fickle our human hearts are without His strength and our partnership with Him in prayer.

Abba Father, come again and renew in us the fresh faith, hope, and above all, the love that the saints before us had—washed and wrapped in the love of the Son of God—so our hearts are no longer orphaned. Train us by Your Holy Spirit to resist the schemes of the evil one. Your promise, Your truth, and Your integrity in what You have spoken are our only weapons of warfare. They lead us into joy—joy that disarms the enemy’s tactics, even our own, throughout this desert journey of life.

Let Your joy permeate us. Let it bubble up in every part of our being so we may stand firm in our faith.

Amen Amen SDG