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