Doulos Theo

When I walk into a room crowded with people, I can immediately recognize my wife. No matter what she is wearing or how she styles her hair, I can still pick her out instantly. I could do it if all I could see was the shadow of her silhouette walking across the room. After 35 years of closeness to her, I know the feel of her touch; I know what it’s like to be in her presence; I know the rhythm and sound of her breath, much less her voice. I also know what makes her happy and sad. But how do I describe those things to you? If I’m trying to tell you or anyone who doesn’t know her how to pick her out of a crowded room, I can’t rely on the intimate details I cherish—I’d have to resort to physical characteristics, because that’s all you can see. Yet, those are not the most important or beautiful ways I know her.

In a similar way, our knowledge of Jesus Christ is meant to be deeply personal and relational, not merely a collection of external facts or rituals. Jesus said to Thomas in John 14:6, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me” (ESV). This profound declaration invites us into a living relationship with Him, not a checklist of rules or deeds. Yet, many of us approach knowing God with a desire for a set of instructions to follow or tasks to perform. Instead, what Jesus offers us is Himself—a relationship that transforms us from the inside out. As the Psalmist writes in Psalm 34:8, “Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in him.” This is an invitation to experience God personally, to know Him as intimately as we know a loved one.

Which would better describe your knowledge of Jesus: Do you know Him in the superficial “height and color of hair” sense—facts about His life, teachings, or historical context? Or is it a personal, experiential knowledge? Do you know what it’s like to cling to Him in pain, disappointment, and confusion, to feel Him moving in your life—comforting, assuring, convicting, and guiding you? John 17:3 defines eternal life itself as this intimate knowledge: “Now this is eternal life: that they know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent.” Theologian Augustine of Hippo reflects this truth in his Confessions, writing, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in You.” Augustine reminds us that our souls find their true home only in a personal relationship with God, where we encounter His love and presence.

This kind of intimate knowledge of God is precisely what many miss in the Christian life, leaving their spiritual walk dry and cold. There are countless seminary students, pastors, and “professional Christians” who possess vast knowledge about God—doctrines, Greek and Hebrew terms, church history—but lack a deep, personal knowledge of Him. This spiritual disconnect manifests in their lives: minimal private prayer, passionless or mechanical worship, anxiety about the future, and a reliance on the validation of others. They may hold PhDs, but they remain infants in the fruit of the Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, and self-control (Galatians 5:22-23). Christian philosopher Søren Kierkegaard warns against this, stating, “To know God truly is to relate to Him as a person, not to dissect Him as an idea. The Christian life is not about mastering concepts but about surrendering to a living relationship.”

The apostle Paul exemplifies this relational knowledge in Philippians 3:8, where he declares, “I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things.” Paul’s passion was not for intellectual mastery but for an ever-deepening communion with Christ. Similarly, Thomas à Kempis in The Imitation of Christ urges, “Let it be our chief study to meditate on the life of Jesus Christ, for in knowing Him we find true peace and eternal joy.” This personal knowledge of Jesus is cultivated through time spent in His presence—through prayer, Scripture meditation, worship, and obedience.

Like the way I know my wife or any close friend or family member, intimacy with Jesus does not happen all at once with a wave of warm fuzzies or by memorizing facts about Him. That is the artificial and superficial way. It takes time, patience, and consistent choices to trust Jesus and emulate Him in both the big and small moments of life. Brother Lawrence, in The Practice of the Presence of God, offers practical wisdom: “We must simply accustom ourselves to seek God in all things, and we shall find Him always with us.” By inviting Jesus into every aspect of our lives—our joys, sorrows, decisions, and struggles—we grow in our ability to recognize His voice and feel His guidance.

As we walk with Christ over time, we begin to look back and see His hand of faithfulness woven through our lives. Psalm 23:4 assures us, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” This promise reminds us that Jesus is not a distant figure but a constant companion who walks with us through every trial. Theologian C.S. Lewis captures the beauty of this journey in Letters to Malcolm: “We may ignore, but we can nowhere evade, the presence of God. The world is crowded with Him. He walks everywhere incognito.” When we cultivate a relationship with Jesus, we learn to discern His presence, even in the ordinary moments, and we find that He has been guiding us all along.

Let us, then, pursue this intimate knowledge of Christ with all our hearts. Let us move beyond knowing about Him to truly knowing Him—His voice, His comfort, His correction, His love. For in this relationship, we find the abundant life He promised: “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full” (John 10:10).

Cliff sat on the edge of the hospital bed, fiddling with the ties of one of those paper-thin gowns that never quite cover the, ahem, essentials. But today, he wasn’t sweating the wardrobe malfunction. Today was a fresh start—the day everything changed.

After months of chemo, scans, and nights spent staring at the ceiling, today was surgery day. The day the cancer would be history. The surgeon, Dr. Harlan, strolled in with the swagger of a man who’d just aced a golf swing. Clipboard in hand, he radiated good news.

“Cliff,” he said, flashing a grin, “the surgery went great!”

Cliff let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “So… the cancer’s all gone?”

“Well…” Dr. Harlan paused, scratching his chin. “We took out a good chunk. About half.”

Cliff blinked. “Half?”

“Yup,” Dr. Harlan said, nodding like he’d just announced a BOGO deal. “We figured that was enough to make a difference. The rest? Eh, it’s not that bad. You can live with it.”

Cliff’s jaw dropped. “But Doctor, the plan was to remove all of it. You said you’d go after every last cell!”

Dr. Harlan shrugged. “Yeah, but once we got in there, taking it all out seemed like… a lot of work.”

Cliff stared, dumbfounded. “So, you left the disease inside me… on purpose?”

“Pretty much,” the doctor said with a wink. “It’s just easier that way.” And with that, Dr. Harlan sauntered out, probably to grab a coffee.

Now, before you start Googling “worst doctors in history,” let’s be clear: thank God, that at least for now, this is a fictional tale. No sane surgeon would leave half a tumor behind and call it a day. But here’s the kicker—sometimes we do exactly that in our spiritual lives. We let things linger that hinder our commitment to Christ, like a bad habit we’re too cozy with or a distraction we’ve nicknamed “self-care.”

C.S. Lewis, once put it this way: “We are not merely imperfect creatures who must be improved: we are rebels who must lay down our arms.” (from Mere Christianity). Ouch, Clive, calling us out like that! But he’s right. Those “hidden sins” or modern-day idols? They’re not just quirks—they’re rebels staging a coup in our hearts.

So, what are these idols? They’re not golden calves or stone statues (unless you’ve got a weird backyard decor thing going on). They’re the distractions, habits, or priorities that sneakily take God’s rightful place. Maybe it’s a toxic relationship that drags you away from holiness. Maybe it’s an addiction to doom-scrolling political X posts, binge-watching shows, or chasing likes for that perfectly filtered selfie. Or perhaps it’s pride, bitterness, or fear you’ve been hauling around like an overstuffed suitcase.

The Bible’s pretty clear about this, as Col. Jessup from the movie “A Few Good Men” says to Tom Cruise’s character “is that Crystal Clear” and it is. In Matthew 5:29-30, Jesus gets downright dramatic: “If your right eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away… If your right hand causes you to stumble, cut it off.” Yikes, Jesus, no chill! He’s not saying to literally start chopping, but He is dead serious about removing anything that pulls us from God. Half-measures will not cut it—pun intended.

Augustine of Hippo, the theologian who went from a total party animal to saint, knew a thing or two about clinging to sin. He famously prayed, “Lord, make me chaste—but not yet!” (Confessions). Sound familiar? We say, “I’ll deal with this habit tomorrow,” or “I’ll forgive that person… eventually.” But God’s not asking us to manage our sin like it’s a quirky roommate. He wants it gone.

But there is good news: God’s not standing there with a clipboard, shaking His head like a disappointed coach. His grace is bigger than our mess. As 1 John 1:9 promises, “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” That’s not just a pat on the back—that’s a full-on spiritual detox! When I fail, Jesus still says, “Cliff, I love you.”

So, what’s the game plan? Listen closely: What’s pulling you from wholehearted devotion to Christ? Is it a social media app that has gotten you in a chokehold? A grudge you are nursing like a pet cactus? A habit you have lived with a long time, and excused as “not that bad”? Whatever it is, do not negotiate with it. Delete the app. Block the number. Confess the sin. Grab a trusted friend and say, “Help me stay accountable, because I’m done playing spiritual Whac-A-Mole.”

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the theologian who stood firm against the evil of Nazi Germany, and paid with hi life said, “The call of Jesus Christ means either we take up our cross or we deny Him” (The Cost of Discipleship). That sounds intense, but it’s also freeing. Cutting out what holds us back is not a punishment—it’s a path to joy, to a life where Christ is the center, not competing with our baggage.

Don’t wait for a “better time” to act. As Psalm 32:5 says, “Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity… and you forgave the guilt of my sin.” God’s ready to forgive and restore—today. So, take the step. Make the call. Pray the prayer. And lean into the grace that’s bigger than any sin you’re carrying.

You’ve got this. And God’s got you.

I’m not on it. Again. Today’s no different. They’ve got their “artists,” “icons,” “leaders,” and “titans,” but apparently, I don’t fit the bill. Worse, I barely recognize half the names on there—except for the ones in the photo I tossed in. And no, I don’t know any of them personally.

But here’s what’s actually worth talking about: Easter weekend is coming, and all my kids are headed home. If reincarnation were a thing, I’d sign up to be my wife’s kid in a heartbeat. Mary’s already in full prep mode—real food, Peeps, games, the works. She’s not just feeding them or keeping them busy; she’s crafting the kind of weekend that leaves them grinning ear to ear. That’s parenting done right. We don’t just want our kids to scrape by; we want them thriving, soaking up the best life has to offer. If I made my own “most influential” list, they’d be at the top. Their joy is my joy.

So why do I struggle to believe God wants that same kind of flourishing for me? Why do I second-guess whether I can expect His best?

It’s not Him—it’s me. I know myself too well. I know God knows me even better, and let’s be real: I don’t deserve His blessings on my own merits. Sure, I get that God is love (1 John 4:8), so He loves me because of who He is, not who I am. Logically, that love means He wants me to have the basics. But asking for more? Expecting His best? That feels like a stretch for a holy God who sees every corner of my messy heart.

Then there’s my gut-level rejection of the “health-and-wealth” gospel that’s everywhere these days. You know the one—preachers promising that enough faith guarantees a fat bank account and perfect health. I can’t buy it. I think of Jesus on the cross, the apostles martyred for their faith, the man born blind who didn’t even know who healed him yet got his sight. I think of the millions of Christians—more in the 20th century than the 19 before it—who died for their faith. I think of friends in Cuba suffering for Christ, or believers in communist or Muslim countries facing brutal persecution. If they’re enduring that, what right do I have to expect a cushy life, let alone to “flourish” in this broken world?

And yet, the Bible keeps saying God wants to bless us. Paul’s crystal clear: “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places” (Ephesians 1:3). John prays, “Beloved, I pray that all may go well with you and that you may be in good health, as it goes well with your soul” (3 John 2). We’re told God can “do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think” (Ephesians 3:20). Look at Joseph of Arimathea, a Jesus follower rich enough to loan out his tomb, or Nicodemus, dropping 75 pounds of pricey spices for Jesus’ burial. Or the women who bankrolled Jesus’ ministry “out of their means” (Luke 8:3).

Money’s not the problem—the Bible never calls it evil. It’s the love of money that’s “a root of all kinds of evils” (1 Timothy 6:10). Big difference. And the rich? They’re told to “do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share” (v. 18).

Here’s one way to square the tension between persecution and prosperity: sometimes, suffering is the path to blessing. Jesus said it himself: “Blessed are you when others revile you and persecute you…on my account” (Matthew 5:11). It doesn’t feel like a blessing when you’re in it—ask Paul, beaten and jailed in Philippi (Acts 16:23). But Jesus follows up: “Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven” (Matthew 5:12). That’s why Paul and Silas were singing hymns at midnight in their cell (Acts 16:25).

I’ve got missionary friends in places I can’t name for their safety. One told me to stop praying for less persecution in their country. I was floored. He said, “Persecution’s purifying us, making us who God wants us to be.” Then he added he’s praying for more persecution in the U.S. for the same reason. Wild.

So yeah, God can want our best and let us walk through pain. If suffering leads to eternal reward or shapes us for His purpose, it’s worth it. Another angle? Prosperity’s often a tool to bless those who are suffering. I’ve heard missionaries in Dallas say, “God blessed America so America’s Christians can bless the world.” In the Old Testament, the Jews were meant to be conduits of God’s blessing, not hoarders of it (Genesis 12:3). They messed up when they acted like they were better than everyone else. We can’t fall into that trap. If God prospers us, it’s not because we’re special—it’s because He loves us like a Father and wants to bless others through us.

Success isn’t what you’ve got; it’s what you give. Holy Week screams that truth. God sent His Son to die for us—to bear our sin, pay our debt, and rise from our grave. If you were the only sinner on earth, Jesus would’ve done it all just for you. He’d do it again. As Billy Graham put it, the cross shows how ugly our sin is—but it also shows God’s insane love for us.

Next time you doubt God wants your best, go back to the cross. That’s where the answer lives.

As Holy Week begins, we stand at the threshold of a sacred journey, one that invites us to reflect on Jesus Christ’s life, death, and resurrection—and how His sacrifice calls us to live. The story of this week, starting with Monday of Holy Week, challenges us to examine our persistence, our fears, and the fruit we bear in our lives, all in the light of Christ’s transformative love.

Consider the power of persistence, vividly displayed in Rory McIlroy’s emotional victory at the Masters. Overcoming a double bogey, a water hazard, and a missed putt, McIlroy sank a birdie on the playoff hole to win, collapsing in tears of relief. To his daughter, Poppy, he offered timeless wisdom: “Never give up on your dreams. Never, ever give up.” Similarly, Tom Cruise, known for defying death in his films, shared his approach to fear with co-star Hailey Atwell: “If you are scared of something, just keep looking at it… it will often give you information about what to do to overcome it.” Both men illustrate human resilience—grit in the face of obstacles and courage in the face of fear.

Yet, what happens when our dreams elude us, or our fears overwhelm our ability to act? The world around us offers sobering reminders of challenges beyond human control. A Russian missile strike in Sumy, Ukraine, killed dozens during Palm Sunday celebrations. A nightclub roof collapse in the Dominican Republic claimed over 200 lives. Threats like bird flu and mpox loom as potential pandemics. Staring at these tragedies, as Cruise suggests, doesn’t always reveal a solution. Persistence alone cannot conquer every fear or fulfill every dream.

Enter Monday of Holy Week, where Jesus encounters a fig tree that prompts a profound lesson. As Mark 11:12–14 recounts, Jesus, hungry and seeing a leafy fig tree, found no fruit—only leaves, despite it not being the season for ripe figs. Matthew notes the tree withered instantly when Jesus cursed it (Matthew 21:19). Why such a severe response? In Israel, fig trees in spring bear paggim—small, edible green knobs—before summer figs ripen. A leafy tree should have had these, but this one was barren, a symbol of fruitlessness.

The prophets often compared faithless Israel to such barren trees (Jeremiah 29:17; Isaiah 34:4). Jesus used this moment to teach: God’s people are judged by their fruit. Like the fig tree, we are called to produce spiritual fruit—love, faith, and service—regardless of the season. But how? Many of us wrestle with fears of fruitlessness, wondering if we’re wasting the life God gave us. McIlroy’s advice to “never give up” feels hollow if we’re unsure of our purpose. Cruise’s call to face fears doesn’t clarify what fruit God expects.

Jesus provides the answer. Three days after cursing the fig tree, He declared, “I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:5). Abiding in Christ—resting in communion with Him—is the key to a fruitful life. His first followers lived this truth. Devoted to prayer and filled with the Spirit, they preached, healed, and spread the gospel from Jerusalem to Rome, Ethiopia to India (Acts 1:14; 2:4, 42–47). Because they abided in Jesus, their fruit transformed the world.

This Holy Week, we’re invited to ask: Are we abiding in Christ? Missionary Hudson Taylor likened it to a branch resting in the vine, not striving for sunshine or rain but trusting the vine to provide. In a world of rules and striving—where even Aristotle’s “golden mean” of virtue feels imprecise—Jesus offers a relationship, not a formula. Aristotle saw virtue as a balance between extremes, like courage between cowardice and recklessness. Yet, human perception alone struggles to find that balance. Only love, rooted in Christ, solves the puzzle.

Living in light of Christ’s sacrifice means seeing life as a metaphor for spiritual truth. A mother changing diapers can be a labor of love or drudgery, depending on her heart’s connection to God. Jesus, the presence of God, becomes our metaphor through the Holy Spirit, shaping us to bear fruit in every act. We don’t enforce rules or stone others for failing; we abide in Him, letting His love guide us.

As we journey through Holy Week, let’s intentionally rest in Jesus. His sacrifice on the cross—foreshadowed by the withered fig tree—calls us to die to self and live for Him. Unlike McIlroy’s hard-won victory or Cruise’s daring stunts, our fruitfulness doesn’t depend on our effort alone. By abiding in Christ, we bear fruit that endures, transforming our lives and the world, just as His love has done for centuries. This is the golden mean of faith: not a rule, but a relationship with the God who makes us fruitful

The English poet Ralph Hodgson once wrote, “Some things have to be believed to be seen.” Centuries earlier, St. Augustine offered a similar reflection: “Faith is to believe what we do not see; the reward of this faith is to see what we believe.” These two statements, though separated by time and context, weave together a truth about human experience: belief often precedes perception, unlocking realities that remain hidden to the skeptical eye. When we consider the virtues of faith, hope, and love, this idea takes on even greater depth. These qualities—celebrated in scripture and literature alike—act as lenses through which we encounter the invisible, transforming the way we see the world and one another. For me, this truth has played out vividly in my own life, particularly in my marriage to my wife, Mary, the family we’ve built together, and in the creative whirlwind of my workplace at Southern Methodist University (SMU).

Faith: The Foundation of Sight

The one of the main bad guys in the movie “Mission Impossible Fall Out” uses the line “hope is not a strategy” and is then immediately told “you must be new here,” since hope is the main ingredient in even attempting a mission that is deemed… “Impossible.” At its core, faith is an act of trust in what lies beyond the tangible. Augustine’s words capture this beautifully, framing faith as a deliberate choice to embrace the unseen, with the promise of revelation as its reward. In the Bible, Hebrews 11:1 echoes this sentiment: “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” This verse underscores faith as a bridge between the present and the possible, a conviction that what we cannot yet grasp is nonetheless real. Consider the story of Abraham, who left his homeland on God’s promise of a future he couldn’t see. His faith didn’t just sustain him—it opened his eyes to a destiny that became visible only through obedience.

When I met Mary at Oral Roberts University and we married 35 years ago, I didn’t have evidence that we’d have a long, happy, fruitful marriage—just a belief rooted in faith. I couldn’t see the decades ahead, the laughter, the challenges, or the milestones. But I trusted in something greater, a conviction that our union was part of a larger purpose. That faith, like Hodgson’s poetic insight, was the first step. It wasn’t based on guarantees but on a willingness to believe before seeing. And over time, the reward emerged: a life together that has proven the truth of what I first trusted…and hoped for.

At SMU, I see this same principle unfold daily. Complex dance performances, intricate symphonies, and elaborate plays begin as ideas and hopes in the minds of choreographers, composers, and directors. Long before the performers step onto the stage, before the instruments are tuned or the lighting is set, someone believes in the vision. That faith—trust in an unseen outcome—drives the planning, rehearsals, rewrites, and refinements until the curtain rises, and what was once intangible becomes a breathtaking reality.

Hope: The Vision of What Could Be

If faith is the foundation, hope is the forward gaze. It’s the expectation that what we believe in will come to light, without it, we don’t start anything in life. Hodgson’s notion that “some things have to be believed to be seen” aligns with hope’s role in sustaining us through uncertainty, abstract thought of any kind is impossible without hope and belief. Hope doesn’t demand immediate proof; it thrives in the tension between now and not-yet. The Bible captures this in Romans 8:24-25: “For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.” Here, hope is an active waiting, a refusal to let the absence of evidence dim our vision.

This hope carried Mary and me through the early years of marriage and into parenthood. When our three children were still in the womb—unseen, their faces and futures unknown—I believed before they were born that I would love them deeply. That hope wasn’t just wishful thinking; it was a confident expectation that they’d bring joy and purpose to our lives. Today, two of them are college graduates with careers, living out their own paths, while our youngest, a surprise baby girl, is finishing high school. What began as an unseen possibility has become a visible reality, a testament to hope’s quiet power. As Emily Dickinson described it, hope is “the thing with feathers—That perches in the soul—And sings the tune without the words—And never stops—at all.”

In my work at SMU, hope is the thread that ties together months of preparation for a single performance. A symphony’s score, a dancer’s choreography, or a play’s script starts as a fragile dream. Musicians miss notes, actors flub lines, and dancers stumble—yet hope persists. It’s the belief that countless unseen hours will culminate in a moment of harmony or grace, a performance that moves an audience. And when it does, that hope is rewarded with something tangible: applause, tears, or a shared gasp of awe.

Love: The Revelation of Connection

Love, perhaps the most transformative of the trio, brings faith and hope into relationship. Augustine’s reward of faith—seeing what we believe—finds its fullest expression in love, which reveals the worth of others and the divine. The Bible’s famous declaration in 1 Corinthians 13:13 ties these virtues together: “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” Why the greatest? Because love makes visible what faith trusts and hope anticipates. It’s the lens that turns strangers into neighbors, enemies into friends, and the abstract into the intimate. Love also the “greatest” because if you are a Christian, it is the only one that endures in the next life of eternity because there and then, hope is not needed, and faith is obsolete because all will be made known and all will be seen.

My love for Mary and our children is the heartbeat of this journey. When I stood at the altar with Mary, I believed in a love I couldn’t yet fully see—a lifelong partnership that would grow through trials and triumphs. That belief blossomed into a reality I now witness daily: a marriage that’s weathered five decades of life, including my career in city government and at SMU. With our children, love took root before I even held them. I couldn’t see their personalities or accomplishments while they were still forming, but I loved them in faith. Now, watching our eldest build a career, our middle child launch into the world post-graduation, and our youngest prepare for her next chapter, I see the reward of that love—a family bound by something deeper than sight alone could reveal. As Victor Hugo put it, “To love another person is to see the face of God.”

At SMU, love is the unseen force behind every production. It’s the director’s care for their actors, the conductor’s devotion to their musicians, the crew’s commitment to every detail—lines, lighting, and all. What starts as an idea in one mind becomes a collective act of love, a shared belief that transforms into a performance. When the stage lights dim and the audience rises, it’s love that has made the invisible visible, connecting creators and spectators in a fleeting, beautiful moment.

The Harmony of the Three

Faith, hope, and love don’t operate in isolation—they amplify one another. Faith plants the seed, hope nurtures it, and love brings it to bloom. Augustine’s theology and Hodgson’s poetry both suggest that this synergy reshapes our perception. The unseen—whether God’s presence, a better future, or the goodness in others—becomes visible through their combined power. As 1 John 4:12 states, “No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.” Love completes the cycle, making the invisible God tangible through human connection.

For me, this harmony has been a lived experience. Believing in a future with Mary before I had proof, hoping for children I couldn’t yet see, and loving them into the people they’ve become—these are the threads of a life shaped by faith, hope, and love. At SMU, I witness this same dance daily: an idea believed in the mind—be it a symphony, a play, or a ballet—moves through hope-filled effort and love-driven collaboration to become a reality on stage. Instruments are tuned, lines are memorized, and movements are perfected, all because someone first believed it could be so.

In a world that often demands proof before belief, these virtues challenge us to reverse the order. Hodgson and Augustine remind us that some truths—perhaps the deepest ones—require us to believe first, to trust in faith, to hold onto hope, and to act in love. The reward? A vision of life richer than what the eye alone can behold. As the poet Rumi once said, “Beyond our ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” It’s in that field—where faith, hope, and love converge—that we finally see what we’ve believed all along, whether in a marriage, a family, or a stage lit by the dreams of many.

Here we are just about a week away from Good Friday and Easter in April 2025, the modern world hums all around us. Our lives seem to be measured in data points—steps tracked, emails ignored, sins tallied—yet beneath this mechanical rhythm lies a deeper story, THE story, one of brokenness and redemption that echoes through the ages. This season invites us to pause and consider: What does it mean to be human in a world that often feels less than human? The answer lies in the cross and the empty tomb, where the enormity of our sin, the courage to confront our shame, the renewal of our spirits, and the reclamation of our humanity converge in Christ’s love.

Imagine, for a moment, the weight of every sin ever committed.

He died for every sin you have ever committed. The same is true for me, and for every one of the 117 billion people who have ever lived (117 billion is the estimate of all of human life that has ever existed).

Let’s assume that each person commits an average of ten sins a day. For some, that would be a bad day; for others, it would be a good day. Then let’s estimate the average life span across human history at around thirty-five years (it was thirty-two in 1900, lower in the centuries before but much higher in the century since). Let’s further assume that the typical person commits their first sin around the age of five, leaving thirty years of active sinning.
Now let’s do the math:
• 10 x 365 days a year = 3,650 sins per person per year.
• 30 years per person = 109,500 sins per person per lifetime.
• Multiplying this by 117 billion people in history = 12,811,500,000,000,000 sins.

I have no idea whether this math is accurate or not, but the point is, it somewhat illustrates the enormity of the sin burden Jesus bore at Calvary for us.

12,811,500,000,000,000 is a number so vast it defies comprehension. Yet this is actually an incomplete and conservative idea of the burden Jesus bore on the cross, he also died for future sins. As the Apostle Paul writes, “For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Corinthians 5:21). On Good Friday, we recall not just a historical event but an act of infinite love, one that absorbed every failure—past, present, and future—culminating in Jesus’ anguished cry: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46). The holy Father turned away from the sinless Son, now laden with our guilt, revealing a sacrifice no finite mind can fully grasp. In a culture that quantifies everything yet understands so little, this truth anchors us: no sin, and no amount of sin, is beyond redemption.

Yet sin’s shadow lingers in modern life, often as shame—a silent wound that thrives in secrecy. We hide behind digital screens, curating perfect personas while wrestling with doubts, addictions, or past wounds. The Gospel of Luke offers a counterpoint: a woman, suffering for twelve years, steps trembling into the light, touches Jesus, and hears, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace” (Luke 8:47-48). Her story is ours. Today, Jesus calls us to speak our shame to Him—not to be condemned, but to be healed. Dietrich Bonhoeffer once said, “The Christian needs another Christian who speaks God’s Word to him… He needs his brother as a bearer and proclaimer of the divine word of salvation.” As Easter approaches, we’re reminded that the church is not a showcase for the flawless but a hospital for the broken, where vulnerability meets grace. The resurrection promises that our wounds, once exposed, become testimonies of restoration.

This healing sparks a deeper renewal, a shedding of the “old man” for the “new.” Toby Keith’s song “Don’t Let the Old Man In,” inspired by Clint Eastwood’s defiance of age when they played golf together, takes on spiritual weight through Paul’s words: “We know that our old man was crucified with him so that the body of sin would no longer dominate us” (Romans 6:6). In a world that idolizes youth yet resigns us to decay—physical or moral—Christ’s victory on the cross and resurrection empowers us to reject the old nature. The “new man,” is alive through the Holy Spirit, and frees us from sin’s grip, not to perfection, but direction, and to growth. C.S. Lewis wrote, “We are not merely imperfect creatures who must be improved: we are rebels who must lay down our arms.” We are in a spiritual war, Easter Sunday is our declaration of surrender and rebirth, a call to live fully as God’s renewed creation, even as the years or temptations press in.

Modern life continually threatens this renewal with another more subtle danger: the mechanization of our humanity. Our inboxes overflow with robotic platitudes— “disrupting the salad industry,” “impactful changemakers”—mirroring AI’s rise and our own descent into rote existence. Psalm 115 warns of idol-worshippers: “Those that make them are becoming like them,” a present-tense prophecy for a world that equates sentience with code. Augustine observed, “Men go abroad to wonder at the heights of mountains… but they themselves are God’s greatest work.” When we reduce life to inputs and outputs, we risk becoming the lifeless idols we craft, as I wrote yesterday, C.S. Lewis calls it “men without chests.” Good Friday and Easter should cause us to interrupt this slide, pulling us back to the flesh-and-blood reality of Christ’s sacrifice and triumph. No algorithm can replace the Savior who wept, bled, and rose.

As we approach Good Friday 2025, we confront and attempt to understand the weight of the sin, shame , and pain Christ carried. On Easter, we also need to realize that we rise with Christ, renewed and fully human. “Behold, I make all things new” (Revelation 21:5), He declares—a promise not just for eternity, but for today. In a world of brokenness and machines, the cross and empty tomb remind us who we are: sinners redeemed, shame-bearers healed, rebels made new, and humans beloved by a God whose ways, as Isaiah 55:9 proclaims, soar higher than our own. This is the meaning of Easter, interrupting modern dead and hopeless life with undying hope.

In our “age,” we risk losing sight of what makes us human, distracted by the powerful tools we create. There is a famous psychological experiment: in it, participants watching a video are asked to count basketball passes. What they found was that the participants in the experiment often fail to notice a person in a gorilla suit walking through the scene, simply because their attention is narrowly focused. This illustrates how we can miss the obvious—God’s presence—when we fixate on what machines or science dictate, what we should see. As we immerse ourselves in technology and artificial fixes, we may be training ourselves to overlook the divine, the “guy in the gorilla suit,” who stands at the heart of our existence (hopefully that last statement is not blasphemous).

However, to understand this drift, we must first define what it means to be human. C.S. Lewis is helpful in this. In his essay “Men Without Chests” from The Abolition of Man, he offers a profound insight. He describes humanity as a synthesis of intellect, emotion, and moral intuition—he calls them head, chest, and belly. The “chest” represents the seat of virtuous sentiment, the capacity to feel rightly about truth and goodness, it bridges raw instinct and cold reason. Lewis warns that modern society risks producing humans without this ability “men without chests”—people governed solely by either intellect or appetite, a monstrosity of just those two, stripped of the heart’s noble passions. True humanity, he argues, is not mere calculation or biological function but a holistic reflection of God’s image, capable of love, wonder, and worship. Carl Trueman notes, “to assess cultural, technological, and political developments on the basis of whether they restore or enhance what it means to be truly human… requires a prior understanding of what it means to be human.” Without this, we drift toward a hollowed-out existence, and technology often hastens that descent. Creating a supercharged intellectual appetite driven human.

Now add to that, psychotropic drugs, a hallmark of modern medicine turned cultural crutch. A depressed individual takes an antidepressant and feels better—a seeming victory. Yet, as depression swells to epidemic proportions, we must ask: Are we just masking a spiritual ailment with a chemical physical fix? Again, Lewis reminds us, “You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.” When we reduce the soul’s cries to material bodily chemical imbalances, we diminish our humanity, sidelining the “chest” that yearns for meaning. The Psalmist models a different response: “Why, my soul, are you downcast? … Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God” (Psalm 42:11). Medicating rather than seeking God risks convincing us by silencing our screaming “chests,” that our restlessness (Augustine says “the heart is restless until it rests in Thee”) is a flaw to be silenced, not a call put there by God, to divine purpose. Thus, we become less human, trading soul-depth for artificial and superficial relief.

Artificial intelligence (AI) can further erode this human essence. Its latest iterations dazzle us, mimicking thought so well that we call it “intelligent.” But it merely recognizes patterns, lacking the soul’s depth. “Men without chests” looms here: if we redefine thought as algorithmic output, we lose the heart’s intuitive wisdom. Thomas Aquinas wrote, “The intellectual soul is the form of the human body,” affirming that our reasoning, entwined with emotion and spirit, reflects God’s image (Genesis 1:27). AI has no such soul—it cannot grasp what Blaise Pascal called “the heart’s reasons that reason knows not of.” The Turing Test is where a human falsely deems a computer “human” if it fools us, it misleads us further. A giraffe mistaken for an elephant remains a giraffe; a machine’s mimicry does not make it human. Yet, as we emulate AI’s detached logic, we risk becoming chestless—calculating, but not truly alive—missing God in the gorilla suit.

This mechanical shift may even imprint itself biologically. Here’s something I wonder. The great leap in cases of autism where is it all coming from. We keep looking for some food we eat or pollutants we breathe as a cause. But maybe it’s a learned handicap. We taught ourselves autistic thinking, that shaped our brains and now we pass the shape on to our children. This is just wild speculation on my part and not supported by any scientific evidence or recognized theory. However, the concept aligns loosely with broader discussions in autism research about environmental and cultural influences on neurodevelopment, though no mainstream study explicitly frames autism as a “learned handicap” passed down through behavioral or cultural adaptation alone, there are many studies exploring how environmental factors, including social and technological influences, might shape brain development.

Are we starting to think more and mor narrowly like machines, without the chest’s breadth? The gorilla-suit experiment warns us. Are we fixated on what technology highlights, and overlooking the divine. Jesus asked, “Having eyes, do you not see, and having ears, do you not hear?” (Mark 8:18). Our obsession with the measurable blinds us to the One who declares, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life” (John 14:6).

However, this dehumanization carries a redemptive thread. Our unease with drugs and AI whispers of Ecclesiastes 3:11: “He has also set eternity in the human heart.” This longing, unmet by created things, points to God, I believe it’s meant to. Pascal observed, “There is a God-shaped vacuum in the heart of every man which cannot be filled by any created thing, but only by God, the Creator, made known through Jesus.” The more we chase artificial fixes, and the more the Zeitgeist of the “age” tries to remove our “chests,” more we prove our need for Him. Paul exhorts, “Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2). Technology, stripping us of our chests, conforms us to this age; God restores us to wholeness.

The antidote is not more innovation but communion with our Maker, who knit us together (Psalm 139:13). Lewis writes, “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” In this age of AI and antidepressants, we can heed the call: “Seek me and live” (Amos 5:4). By seeking God, we reclaim our full humanity—not as machines, but as image-bearers with heads, chests, and souls, attuned to the One who walks among us, even when we fail to see Him.

In the 1986 comedy classic Back to School, Rodney Dangerfield’s character, Thornton Melon, a brash, self-made millionaire, steps into a college classroom and dismantles the lofty theories of a pompous business professor. In one memorable scene, the professor drones on about the textbook costs of building a factory—construction, materials, labor—only to be interrupted by Melon, who schools him on the gritty realities of the real world. “First of all, you’re going to have to grease the local politicians for the sudden zoning problems that always come up,” Melon quips. “Then there’s the kickbacks to the carpenters… and don’t forget a little something for the building inspectors. Then there’s long-term costs like waste disposal—I don’t know if you’re familiar with who runs that business, but I assure you it’s not the Boy Scouts.” The class erupts in laughter as the professor, flustered, suggests a factory location, prompting Melon’s zinger: “How about Fantasyland?”

Fast forward to 2025, and this scene feels like a perfect metaphor for the ongoing clash between Donald Trump and the self-proclaimed economic “experts” who dominate academia and media. Trump, a real estate mogul turned political juggernaut, embodies the Thornton Melon archetype—a man whose decades of hands-on business experience give him an edge over the theoretical pontifications of ivory-tower economists. As America navigates a complex economic landscape on April 4, 2025, with Trump back in the spotlight following his re-election, the contrast between practical know-how and academic abstraction has never been starker—or more relevant.

Trump’s approach to economics mirrors Melon’s no-nonsense pragmatism. While economists with PhDs debate abstract models and decry his tariff policies or tax cuts as “reckless,” Trump leans on a lifetime of deal-making and empire-building. His argument is simple: he’s done it, not just studied it. In a February 2025 speech at the Future Investment Initiative Institute Priority Summit in Miami, Trump touted his economic vision: “We’re ending trillions of dollars in waste… it’ll mean much lower inflation; lower interest rates; lower payments on mortgages, credit cards, car loans; and much higher stock markets.” The stock market, indeed, has responded—since his election on November 5, 2024, the Nasdaq has surged nearly 10%, and the Dow Jones climbed 2,200 points in mere months.

Contrast this with the chorus of economists who, much like the Back-to-School professor, cling to their theoretical frameworks. They warn of trade wars, inflation spikes, and market instability—yet the numbers tell a different story. Business optimism, as measured by a 42-point jump in a single month (the largest in history), reflects a confidence that transcends academic hand-wringing. Trump’s real-world lens cuts through the noise, focusing on what works: incentivizing investment, slashing red tape, and putting America first.

This isn’t a new phenomenon. History’s most successful businessmen and inventors have long understood that theory pales beside practice. Henry Ford, the automotive pioneer, once said, “I don’t know much about economics, but I do know that if you make something people want and sell it at a price they can afford, you’ll do alright.” Ford didn’t need a degree to revolutionize industry—he built an empire by understanding supply, demand, and human nature. Similarly, Steve Jobs, the visionary behind Apple, dismissed overcomplicated analysis: “Real artists ship.” Jobs didn’t theorize about markets; he created them, driven by intuition honed through trial and error.

The so-called experts, meanwhile, often miss the forest for the trees. In Back to School, the professor’s lecture omits the messy realities—bribes, negotiations, and unseen costs—that Melon knows intimately. Today’s economists exhibit a similar blind spot. Take the backlash to Trump’s “Liberation Day Tariffs,” announced in early 2025 to protect American industries. Critics howled that tariffs would tank the economy, citing textbook free-trade dogma. Yet Trump countered with a practical rebuttal: “They’ve taken advantage of us for many, many years… Our country is going to boom.” His logic echoes Melon’s: the real world isn’t a frictionless model—it’s a battlefield of competing interests, and you win by knowing the terrain.

Elon Musk, a modern titan of industry, aligns with this view. “The best way to predict the future is to create it,” Musk has said, reflecting his disdain for armchair theorizing. Musk’s success with Tesla and SpaceX stems from relentless execution, not academic papers. When he faced skepticism about electric vehicles, he didn’t debate—he built. Trump’s economic playbook follows a similar script: act decisively, adjust as needed, and let results silence the doubters.

The disconnect between theory and practice isn’t just philosophical—it’s measurable. Under Trump’s first term, pre-COVID, the U.S. enjoyed what he called “the greatest economy in the history of our country,” with unemployment at historic lows and median household income rising. Critics attribute this to luck or global trends, but Trump’s hands-on approach—tax cuts, deregulation, and trade renegotiations—laid the groundwork. Compare that to the Biden-Harris years, where theoretical promises of “equity” and “green energy” yielded stagnant growth and inflation woes. As Thornton Melon might say, one side lives in Fantasyland; the other knows how to grease the wheels. Thomas Edison, the prolific inventor, captured this ethos perfectly: “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” Edison’s breakthroughs didn’t come from equations but from relentless experimentation—much like Trump’s willingness to defy conventional wisdom. When Trump pushed for energy independence in his first term, experts scoffed; yet by 2020, the U.S. became a net oil exporter for the first time in decades. Theory said it couldn’t be done. Experience proved otherwise.

In 2024, voters chose Trump over Kamala Harris, signaling a rejection of the professorial class’s “hoped-for” solutions in favor of a proven doer. As Douglas MacKinnon wrote in a 2024 Yahoo opinion piece, “Trump is the real-life version of [Melon]. Back in 2016, tens of millions of Americans turned away from the elites and toward him to jot down notes.” That trend held in 2024, with voters betting on a man who’s navigated bankruptcies, built skyscrapers, and outmaneuvered rivals—not one who’s spent decades in lecture halls or Senate chambers.

The Back to School scene ends with the students laughing at the professor’s expense, a symbolic victory for practical wisdom. Today, Trump’s economic wins—rising markets, surging optimism, and a focus on tangible results—echo that triumph. The experts may clutch their textbooks, but as Warren Buffett, the Oracle of Omaha, once said, “In the business world, the rearview mirror is always clearer than the windshield.” Trump’s rearview mirror shows a track record of getting things done. The professors? They’re still lost in Fantasyland.

There certainly is a lot for children to be afraid of in today’s world. In fact, there’s a lot we all are afraid of these days. Mythology is how ancient’s developed stories to teach how children and adults as well, combated real fears and dangers in life.

G.K. Chesterton, the prolific English writer and Christian thinker, once remarked, “Children don’t need to be told that dragons exist, they already know. They need to be told dragons can be killed.” This deceptively simple statement carries profound philosophical, theological, and practical weight. It speaks to the innate human awareness of evil, danger, and chaos—symbolized by dragons—and the equally critical need to instill courage and hope that such forces can be overcome. It was very wise when in the past, myth and the power of storytelling in fiction and film, and real-life encounters with literal and metaphorical “dragons” was used to teach courage and hope in the face of danger and evil. Today, myth and story telling is used differently for the most part. Now instead of using the mythological to teach how to face real dangers and evil, myth and story telling is overwhelmingly used to teach society to face imagined dangers and fears and ignore the real ones. The real ones are dealt with chemically now.

The Instinctive Knowledge of Dragons

Chesterton’s assertion begins with a universal truth: children instinctively recognize the presence of danger and malevolence in the world. This aligns with St. Augustine’s reflections on the human condition in his Confessions: “For I was afraid of non-existence, and yet I was not strong enough to hold fast to existence.” Augustine suggests that even from a young age, humans grapple with an awareness of threats—be they physical, moral, or existential. The “dragons” children know are not merely fairy-tale reptiles but representations of chaos, fear, and the unknown, lurking in the shadows of their imagination and experience.

In literature, this primal recognition is vividly captured. Consider J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit, where Smaug, the great dragon, embodies greed, destruction, and terror. Tolkien, a devout Catholic, understood the dragon as a symbol of evil—a reality children grasp without explanation. Similarly, in C.S. Lewis’s The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, the sea serpent that threatens the ship is a monstrous force the young protagonists instinctively fear. Lewis wrote in Mere Christianity, “We are born helpless. As soon as we are fully conscious, we discover loneliness. We need others physically, emotionally, intellectually; we need them if we are to know anything, even ourselves.” The dragon, then, is not just a beast but a manifestation of isolation and peril that children sense in their bones.

The Need to Know Dragons Can Be Killed

If the existence of dragons is self-evident, Chesterton’s deeper point is that children must be taught they are not invincible. This is where courage, faith, and action enter the picture. Søren Kierkegaard, the Danish Christian philosopher, emphasized the necessity of confronting fear in Fear and Trembling: “To venture causes anxiety, but not to venture is to lose one’s self.” For Chesterton, showing, and telling children that dragons can be killed is an act of empowerment—it equips them to face the world’s evils rather than cower before them.

In fiction, this lesson shines through in tales of heroism. In Beowulf, the hero slays the dragon, but at great cost, reflecting the Christian notion that victory over evil almost always demands sacrifice—a theme Chesterton, a lover of paradox, would have appreciated. In Steven Spielberg’s Jaws, the great white shark—a modern dragon—terrorizes Amity Island until Chief Brody, Quint, and Hooper unite to destroy it; in the book Brody is the only one that survives. The film underscores that while the threat is real, human ingenuity and resolve can prevail. Herman Melville’s Moby Dick offers an earlier more complex and ambiguous take of the sea monster theme: Captain Ahab’s obsessive quest to kill the white whale ends in his own destruction, suggesting that the battle against dragons requires wisdom as much as bravery.

Real-Life Dragons and Their Defeat

Myth and fiction are not the only place to learn this lesson. Chesterton’s insight extends into the real world, where “dragons” take tangible forms. Consider the true story of the Champawat Tiger, recounted in Richard Conniff’s No Beast So Fierce. This lone man-eating tigress in early 20th-century India killed over 400 people (that they have documented for sure), sowing terror across many villages, and across the border of two countries. Her reign ended only when Jim Corbett, a hunter with a deep respect for nature, tracked and killed her in 1907. The villagers didn’t need convincing that the tiger was a real “dragon”—they lived in its shadow. What they needed was Corbett’s proof that it could be stopped, restoring safety and hope.

Similarly, the 1996 film The Ghost and the Darkness dramatizes the real-life terror of the Tsavo Man-Eaters—two lions that killed dozens of railway workers in 1898 Kenya. Engineer John Patterson, played by Val Kilmer, ultimately hunts them down, showing that even nature’s fiercest predators can be defeated with determination and skill. These stories echo Chesterton’s point: the dragon’s existence is a given, but its defeat is a revelation.

A Theological Lens

For Chesterton, a committed Christian, and for all Christians, the ultimate dragon is sin and death, both vanquished by Christ. As St. Thomas Aquinas wrote in Summa Theologica, “The human race was in a state of misery [and fear] through the sin of our first parents, but it has been brought back to glory through Christ.” In this light, Chesterton’s statement reflects the Gospel narrative: evil exists, but it is not the final word. Children, in their innocence, sense the darkness, but they must learn through stories, faith, and example that light triumphs.

Why This Matters Today

Chesterton’s wisdom remains urgent in a world brimming with internal and external metaphorical dragons—war, disease, injustice, and personal struggles. Modern films like Jurassic Park (with its resurrected dinosaurs) or even documentaries about surviving natural disasters remind us that threats persist. Yet, the message endures: we are not powerless. Whether it’s a child facing a bully, a community rebuilding after a storm, or a hunter tracking a beast, the knowledge that dragons can be killed fuels hope and resilience.

In the end, Chesterton invites us to embrace a dual truth: the world, and life are perilous, but it is not hopeless. Through the victories of Hero’s and Heroin in fairy tales, epics, and real-life stories, and most importantly Christ; we teach ourselves and the next generation what he knew so well—that dragons in all their forms, can be slain.

Denzel Washington, a celebrated actor and minister, recently offered a profound distinction between stage acting and movie acting during an interview with CBS News alongside Jake Gyllenhaal. The two are currently starring in a record-breaking Broadway production of Othello. Washington remarked, “I’m a stage actor who does film; it’s not the other way around. I learned how to act on stage, not on film.” He elaborated, “Movies are a filmmaker’s medium. You shoot it, and then you’re gone and they cut together and add music and do all of that. Theater is an actor’s medium. The curtain goes up, nobody can help you.”

This contrast invites us to reflect on our own lives: Are we self-reliant actors on a stage, or are we participants in a grand production directed by God? Just as Washington’s insight applies to acting, we can extend it to other performative arts—symphonic music and dance—and see how they mirror our spiritual journey under God’s guidance versus our own.

The Stage, the Symphony, and the Dance of Life

Consider a symphonic performance. Each musician, from the violinist to the percussionist, plays a specific part under the conductor’s baton. If a single player decides to improvise outside the score, the harmony collapses. Similarly, a dance troupe moves in unison, guided by a choreographer’s vision. A dancer who breaks from the routine disrupts the beauty of the collective. In both cases, submission to a higher direction creates something transcendent—something no individual could achieve alone.

Life under God’s direction is much the same. The Bible affirms this in Proverbs 3:5-6: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.” When we trust God as our Director, Conductor, and Choreographer, we find our place in His eternal symphony and dance. But when we insist on our own script, tempo, or steps, we risk discord and isolation.

God’s Timing and Our Role

The story of the invalid at the pool of Bethesda in John 5 offers a vivid example. This man, crippled for thirty-eight years, waited by the pool for healing. Jesus, who likely passed him many times before, chose a specific moment to act. Why the delay? As Augustine of Hippo wrote, “God’s delays are not God’s denials.” The timing of this miracle aligned with God’s redemptive purpose, amplifying its impact for the kingdom. Had the man rejected Jesus’ command to “rise, take up your bed, and walk” (John 5:8), insisting instead on his own terms, he would have remained paralyzed—both physically and spiritually.

This echoes Washington’s stage analogy. On the stage of self-reliance, “nobody can help you.” But in God’s “movie,” the Director knows every scene. Thomas Aquinas reflected on divine providence, saying, “God has a universal care over all things, directing them to their ultimate end.” When we surrender to His direction, we participate in a story far greater than our own.

The Symphony of Submission

Imagine a symphony where the conductor is God Himself. Psalm 23:1 declares, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” Like a conductor leading an orchestra, God guides us through each movement of life. C.S. Lewis, in Mere Christianity, observed, “God made us: invented us as a man invents an engine. A car is made to run on petrol, and it would not run properly on anything else. Now God designed the human machine to run on Himself.” To play our part in His symphony, we must follow His lead, not our own improvisations.

The Dance of Faith

Similarly, life as a dance under God’s choreography requires trust and obedience. The medieval mystic Julian of Norwich wrote, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well,” reflecting her confidence in God’s ultimate plan. In Matthew 11:28-30, Jesus invites us into this dance: “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me… For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” To dance with Christ is to move in step with His grace, not to stumble in our own frantic solo.

The Peril of Radical Individualism

Yet, the temptation to direct our own lives persists. Sociologist Robert Bellah warned of “radical individualism,” which “elevates the self to a cosmic principle.” This mindset mirrors a stage actor, a rogue musician, or a defiant dancer—each isolated and powerless. Søren Kierkegaard cautioned, “The proud person always wants to do the right thing, the great thing. But because he wants to do it in his own strength, he is fighting not with man but with God.” When we reject God’s direction, we forfeit His power to transform us.

“You Lead. I Follow.”

The invalid at Bethesda chose differently. He obeyed Jesus’ command, and in doing so, experienced a miracle. Likewise, whether we see ourselves in a play, a symphony, or a dance, the key is submission. As Paul wrote in Romans 12:1, “I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.” To say to God, “You lead. I follow,” is to step into His purpose.

Who is directing your life today—yourself or the One who knows the end from the beginning? In God’s production, every note, every step, every scene aligns with His glory and our good. Will you take your place in His story?

“Use me, God. Show me how to take who I am, who I want to be, and what I can do, and use it for a purpose greater than myself.” —Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.