The Ultimate Sign 

John 20:25 – “The other disciples therefore said to him, ‘We have seen the Lord.’ So he said to them, ‘Unless I see in His hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and put my hand into His side, I will not believe.’” 

A few weeks ago, I went to a Chinese restaurant in Los Angeles with some friends. One of them had recently undergone stomach surgery to remove a tumor, which left a large scar across his abdomen. Since the surgery, he's only been able to eat half the amount he used to, and he jokingly referred to the procedure as his “diet surgery.” 

When we entered the restaurant, he presented a small card to the cashier—his “Gastro Card.” It’s meant for people who can no longer consume full adult portions, allowing them a discount. But this particular card had no name on it. So the cashier, puzzled, asked, “How do I know you’re the one who had the gastric bypass surgery?” Without missing a beat, my friend replied with confidence, “I can show you the scar on my belly,” as he started to lift his shirt. The cashier immediately laughed and said, “No, no. That’s quite all right. I don’t need to see it myself.” 

Later that evening, the interaction reminded me of the Apostle Thomas and what he requested from Jesus. We often think of Thomas as the disciple with the weakest faith. He couldn’t believe Jesus had risen unless he personally touched the scars on His body. But perhaps there’s more to Thomas’ request than simple doubt. 

Unlike the religious leaders who demanded dazzling miracles and heavenly signs to prove Jesus' identity, Thomas asked for one simple thing: to see the scars. He didn't demand fire from heaven or angels in the sky—just the visible marks of suffering that testified to Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection. 

So was Thomas really lacking faith? Or was he asking for the one sign that truly mattered—something intimate and deeply personal? 

While others sought power, spectacle, or authority, Thomas sought proof of love. The scars weren’t just physical reminders of pain—they were the visible evidence of Christ’s sacrifice, the marks of redemption etched into the flesh of the Savior. 

We know that God has the power to send angels or split the skies to confirm His authority. He could give us a glimpse of heaven or a vision of hell to secure our loyalty. But He doesn't. Why? Because the history of Israel teaches us that miraculous signs alone do not create lasting faith. The Israelites saw wonders in the wilderness, yet their hearts remained hardened. Miracles may capture attention, but they do not transform the soul. 

True faith, then, doesn't come from external signs but from an inward conviction. It is rooted in the cross—where Jesus bore the scars not only for Thomas to see but for all of us to believe. Those scars are the ultimate sign of our salvation. 

We may not need grand visions or supernatural spectacles. Maybe all we need is to look at the simple, sacred wounds—just as Thomas did. Maybe faith begins by recognizing that the deepest proof of God’s love has already been given. 

Let us look not for extraordinary signs, but for the ordinary scars—the ones that remind us that love bled for us. That is the ultimate sign.

Where Is the Truth? 

John 15:16 (NIV) - “You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit—fruit that will last…” 

Recently, I finished reading My Struggle by Karl Ove Knausgaard—a six-volume, 3,600-page autobiographical novel delving deep into the author’s self-perception and paradoxical emotions surrounding his life. One key insight I drew from this lengthy work was his growing awareness of the false assumptions he held about the roots of his inadequacy and weariness. 

What he initially believed to be the path toward truth and meaning—his creative pursuits—ultimately revealed itself to be a distraction. His true identity, he discovers, does not come from his artistic accomplishments but from his relationships, especially with his family. 

This realization reminded me of another book I read years ago: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. In this fictional tale, a young boy named Santiago embarks on a journey to find worldly treasure. By the end of his quest, he realizes the treasure he was seeking was not somewhere far away but right where he began—close to the one he loved. 

Both stories share two central truths: 

Truth is not far away. It resides where you are deeply connected to those you love.  Struggle often stems from ignorance. Pain arises when we are unaware of what we do not know. And to gain true understanding, we must return to—or reconnect with—the ones we love. 

Our struggles in life come in many forms—some predictable, others unexpected. As followers of Christ, one of the central struggles we face is the question of where truth lies. We often ask: 

Where is my life headed?  What is the value of my life, and how do I pursue it?  How do I live a life worthy of being called a child of God? 

These questions remain with us throughout our daily journey. And they are not fully answered until we are connected to the Lord—until we come to know the Truth that is Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who holds the key to our lives. It is a mystery: unless we are connected to the Truth, we cannot truly know it. 

This is why Jesus came to His disciples first. He called them. He loved them before they could love Him—regardless of their moral or spiritual condition. 

This is the heart of our Christian faith: we believe in the Lord because He first came to us. We are connected to Him, not because of our merit, but because of His choice and love. 

And that—gracefully and powerfully—is where the truth begins.

The Point of Our Spiritual View 

Matthew 6:33 “Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.” 

  While I was waiting for my order at a local fast-food restaurant, my attention was drawn to two teenagers sitting across from me. One wore headphones, lost in his own world, while the other was absorbed in a game on his iPhone. As I glanced around the room, I noticed the same pattern everywhere—people fixated on their devices. In that moment, I felt oddly out of place. 

The scene reminded me of an experience from my college days in the late 1990s. I was in the school computer lab, browsing a webpage, when a friend walked up and, with playful sarcasm, asked, “How long have you been digging into the internet today?” In those days, the internet was still in its infancy—slower, less advanced, and not nearly as integrated into everyday life as it is now. Spending too much time online was unusual and could earn you the label “internet fanatic.” 

But no one would ask such a question today. Now we are all constantly online, connected to the digital world every hour of the day through our phones. Being on the internet has become our default state, and the phrase “internet fanatic” has disappeared altogether. 

The German liberal Protestant theologian Ernst Troeltsch used the term “cultural particularity” to describe how a person’s values are judged within the framework of a specific cultural and social reality. 

In the 90s, too much time online meant you “had no life.” Today, the opposite is often true—if you’re not online, you risk being seen as a “social hermit.” Social values shift, and what was once frowned upon can become the norm. 

Scripture tells us to “deny yourself” and “take up your cross.” In the first century, these words defined the very essence of Christian discipleship, often involving physical persecution and sacrifice. But in our time, someone who lived by those principles with the same devotion might be dismissed as a “religious fanatic” or “extremist.” The way we measure faith has shifted with the culture. 

I call this modern way of thinking “spiritual particularity”—a tendency to seek a personalized version of faith while devaluing the core truths that once formed its foundation. In the process, we risk losing something essential: the divine point of view. Early Christians saw the world through God’s eyes, asking what they could do for the sake of the gospel. Today, we often approach faith by asking how God’s word can improve our happiness or comfort. 

The difference between these two perspectives lies in what we emphasize and whose point of view we adopt. The more we center our faith on personal benefit, the weaker our foundation in Christ becomes—and ironically, the more we miss out on the very blessings we hope to receive. 

The answer remains the same as it has always been: “Seek first the kingdom of God, and all these things will be added to you.” 

The Fundamental Question 

 Romans 6:8–9 "Now if we died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with Him. For we know that since Christ was raised from the dead, He cannot die again; death no longer has dominion over Him." 

In Lucerne, Switzerland, a lion sleeps in stone. 

The Lion Monument, carved into rock, tells a story of courage and sorrow. 

In the fifteenth century, Switzerland was poor, its economy broken. So the government sent her sons broad—mercenaries for hire. They fought not only for gold, but with the weight of their families and homeland upon their shoulders. 

In 1506, Pope Julius II summoned them. Swiss guards stood watch over the Vatican, and in 1527, when Rome was torn by the armies of Emperor Charles V—14,000 Germans, 6,000 Spanish, countless Italians—147 of the 189 guards died at their post. They fell, not retreating, their courage engraved forever in history. 

Their valor became legend. In the seventeenth century, King Louis XVI brought them to Paris to guard his household. And when the Revolution came, the Swiss stood once more between chaos and the throne. Over six hundred fell at the Tuileries Place. Even when the king begged them to return home, they chose faithfulness to their duty over survival. They stood, and they died. 

The Lion Monument—sometimes called the “Rock Relief”—is carved to remember them. To this day, in the Vatican, Swiss guards still stand watch, their uniforms bright, their loyalty enduring. 

Mark Twain, visiting Lucerne, looked upon the monument. In his book A Tramp Abroad (1880), he asked the question: “Young men, what are you dying for?” 

Faith in Christ cannot be separated from such a question. To follow Him is to carry within us a willingness—a desperation—a brave heart that says: 

If I must die, I die for Him. 

If I must live, I live for Him. 

Our reward is not of this world. It is not weighed in gold, nor measured in applause. It is hidden in Christ, secured by His Spirit, promised in His resurrection. 

The world may never understand. It may see only the agony, the sacrifices, the unseen pain of faith kept in secret battles. And still the question comes, sometimes in scorn, sometimes in honest wonder: “What are you dying for?” 

The answer must rise from within us, clear and steady: We die with Christ, that we may live with Him.

Tears That Teach 

Hebrews 11:32–34 “And what more shall I say? For time would fail me to tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, of David and Samuel and the prophets—who through faith conquered kingdoms, enforced justice… were made strong out of weakness...” 

Recently, I learned that Hulk Hogan had passed away. When I was a child, he was one of the wrestlers I admired the most. In 2014, The Ultimate Warrior—whose real name was James Brian Hellwig—also died. Dressed in his dramatic Native American-style attire, he was my childhood hero. Through these wrestlers, I formed my earliest impressions of Americans: strong, powerful, fearless. For a time, I assumed most Americans were just like them. 

A few years later, I boarded a plane to pursue my studies in the United States. Having graduated from school early, I was still young—really just a kid who happened to love wrestling. On that flight, a student about college age sat next to me. He looked deeply sad, and more than once I saw him quietly wiping tears from his eyes. I never asked why. I could not. My English was too limited. Yet I knew, without words, that he was grieving. 

That moment unsettled me. “Do Americans also feel sorrow?” I wondered. “Do Americans cry?” 

It was a strange realization. My image of Americans had been shaped by wrestlers who embodied strength and fearlessness. To see one of them cry broke that illusion. Looking back, I realize I was young, naïve, and just beginning to see people as they truly are. 

The truth is this: no matter our culture, nationality, or age, all of us experience both sorrow and joy. When a family member is ill, our hearts ache. When finances become uncertain, we worry. When our children graduate and find good work, we rejoice. 

These emotions are not bound by borders. They are part of what it means to be human, placed in us by God, who transcends time and space. 

The Bible tells of great heroes of faith—men and women who worked miracles, confronted injustice, and stood with courage. Yet we must not forget that they were also ordinary people who felt the same pain, anxiety, and joy we do. Though they lived long before us, they wrestled with the same struggles of the human heart. 

That realization is both humbling and encouraging. It means that we, too, can be instruments in God’s hands. Whatever circumstances we face—whether grief or joy, weakness or strength—God can take our ordinary lives and use them for His kingdom. The figures we call “heroes of faith” were not born as heroes. They began as ordinary people, just like us. 

Remembering that truth gives us courage to offer our own lives to God’s purposes.

An Insignificant But Significant Thing 

John 4:23 – “But the hour comes, and is now.” 

We all remember the year 2020, when the COVID-19 pandemic disrupted nearly every aspect of our daily lives. It forced us to adapt quickly and unexpectedly, even in the smallest routines. One surprising change was the sudden shift in consumer behavior—products that once seemed ordinary or unnecessary suddenly became essential. 

For instance, hair clippers and related items such as clipper oil and barber capes became high-demand products. With stay-at-home orders in place and non-essential businesses closed—including barbershops and hair salons—many parents found themselves learning how to cut their children’s hair. They had no choice but to take matters into their own hands. 

Another surprising trend was the spike in demand for baking products like flour and yeast. As people spent more time at home, many turned into self-quarantine bakers. One major TV channel published an article titled, “Why Everyone’s Suddenly Breaking Bread.” In it, Maddalena Borsato, a researcher of bread philosophy at the University of Gastronomic Sciences in Turin, remarked, “It’s funny because only one month ago, everyone was on a gluten-free diet. Now, suddenly everyone is a baker.” 

Who would have imagined that these simple, everyday items would become so valuable during a crisis? 

In 1840, Harriet Martineau wrote The Hour and the Man, which expresses the idea that at a specific moment, a specific person will rise to the occasion and become a hero. This idea is timeless. Consider George Washington, who rose to prominence during the American Revolutionary War (1775–1783). His leadership during that dark and uncertain time in history led to the founding of a new nation and to his becoming the first President of the United States. The hour came—and the man rose to meet it. 

Likewise, we must not measure our worth or the value of our actions only by the standards of today. What may seem small or unnoticed now could one day be seen as greatly significant in God’s timing. The things we do today—though they may feel mundane or insignificant—could become, in the hands of God, key contributions to His Kingdom. 

This should encourage us to give our best in every effort, no matter how small it may seem. God may take what you think is unimportant and use it as a turning point—not only for your life, but for your community and our church. 

The hour may come—and when it does, may we be ready to be the person God calls to rise. 

Look Long and Hard 

It was late afternoon. The sun, heavy and golden, was sinking low. As I walked home through the quiet neighborhood, I noticed a woman standing still—just outside her house—her eyes fixed on a rose bush. 

It was withering. Its petals had fallen, its branches slumped to one side, as if it, too, was tired. I had passed that bush many times, and each time I thought the same—someone ought to pull it out. It was no longer lovely. It was no longer beautiful. It was no longer… anything. 

But she stood there, gazing at it not with pity, but with quiet reverence. So, I asked, gently, 

"Why are you looking at that dried-up rose bush?" 

She smiled, soft and wise, and said, “If you look long and hard, you can find something beautiful.” 

Then added, “If you look long and hard…beauty appears.” 

That stayed with me. Not just her words, but the way she saw the rosebush. 

Isn’t that what we forget—in our hurried lives, our strained relationships, in the pain we’d rather push away? We misunderstand one another, we bruise each other with careless words—not out of cruelty, but because we don’t take the time to see deeply, to see patiently. 

And our pain – we glance at it quickly, then look away. But the pain still lingers. It festers. 

We blame. We hide. But when we sit with it—when we dare to stay—and look long and hard, something begins to unfold. Something holy. We find, hidden beneath the sorrow, a quiet beauty. 

Placed there by God. Not to shame us, but to shape us. 

There is a beauty that refines. That molds. That leads us closer to who we were always meant to be. 

So perhaps, in all things, there is providence. Even in what appears broken. Even in what others have discarded. When we look long and hard, everything begins to shimmer. Even the dried rose. Even the weary soul. 

Even you. 

No matter the roads you've walked, the mistakes you’ve made, the burdens you carry—If we look with grace, if we see with stillness, we’ll find what is true: 

You are beautiful as well.  

Beauty Born Through Suffering — A Meditation on Rachmaninoff’s Symphony No. 2 

When we find ourselves in the deepest valleys of despair, comfort sometimes comes not through words, but through music. 

Rachmaninoff’s Symphony No. 2 is one such piece. Many regard it as the most beautiful and emotionally rich of all his works. Its quiet melodies seem to wrap around us and whisper, 

"It’s okay. You are not alone." 

This music touches us so deeply because Rachmaninoff composed it from within his own suffering. 

At the age of 22, he completed his Symphony No. 1, which premiered in 1897. But the performance was a disaster. The conductor, Alexander Glazunov, was reportedly intoxicated and unprepared. The audience and critics responded with harsh criticism. The experience devastated Rachmaninoff, leading him into years of silence, depression, and wandering. 

It wasn’t music that first brought him back—it was therapy, time, and a willingness to face his inner pain. After a long period of healing, Rachmaninoff completed his Symphony No. 2 in 1907. During the performances of this new symphony, he never once mentioned his first. 

This second symphony is not merely a musical work. 

It is a sacred expression of pain, loneliness, and long-suffering—a transcendent beauty born out of failure and despair. Perhaps it is only when we walk through our own valleys that we discover the hidden beauty buried deep within. Just as Rachmaninoff did. 

This truth echoes even more profoundly in the life of Jesus Christ. 

His path to redemption was marked by loneliness and pain, and it was on the cross—in complete surrender and silence—that He accomplished the work of salvation. Without His suffering, there would be no cross, and without the cross, no resurrection. God chose suffering as the path to recreate us in His image. 

Perhaps the pain and despair we face in this life are not meaningless. 

In those moments, we are sometimes drawn closer to God and shaped more beautifully by His providence. 

To those who are weary and worn today, I offer this quiet reminder: 

“The season you are enduring now may be the very hands of God shaping you into something more beautiful than you could ever imagine.”

What Value Are We Pursuing? 

Colossians 2:8 “See to it that no one takes you captive through philosophy and empty deceit, according to human tradition, according to the elemental spirits of the universe, and not according to Christ.” 

Yesterday, a friend called and told me about a restaurant he visited in Magnolia, Ohio. The owner is a fourth-generation descendant, and the business has been running continuously since 1914. The main dishes are fried chicken, buffalo wings, biscuits and gravy, and all sorts of pies. Every day, people wait in line at least 30 minutes just to get in. 

Some of the customers first came when they were little children. Now, they bring their own grandchildren to share the same experience. 

The uniqueness of this restaurant lies in its faithfulness to the original menu and recipes from the very beginning. Every dish is still priced at $7.99, including coffee. No money? No problem—just pay later when you can. And if you’re over 70, everything is half-price. I can’t wait until I reach that age to enjoy that big discount! 

The core value of the restaurant is to serve homemade-style food without gimmicks. Neighbors respect its history and the way it holds fast to its values. They eat there, share memories, enjoy fellowship with the owner’s family, and appreciate the restaurant’s commitment to keeping its original purpose alive. 

Today, we face the reality of diminishing church attendance in the current generation. This decline began in the late 1960s. Between 2023 and 2024 alone, 140 congregations in our denomination closed their doors. Aware of this decline, many church leaders have worked hard to restore Christianity’s vitality by adapting secular culture into the church. Yet in doing so, we have often done the opposite—allowing the church to be shaped by secular culture, rather than transforming secular culture through the church. 

Since the 1960s, the value of Scripture has often faded into the shadows—overshadowed by religious pluralism and by individualism deteriorating into selfishness. The Bible has been treated as secondary, while secular knowledge and cultural norms have been given priority. The church’s teachings, shaped by psychology and sociology for human relationships and personal success, are sometimes regarded as more important than the very essence of Scripture itself. While some individuals and congregations may seem to benefit from this trend, the broader church has declined in numbers and lost much of its spiritual and social influence in society. 

 So we must ask ourselves: 

What is the true value of Christianity?  What is the true value of the church today?

Find the True Freedom  

1 Corinthians 7:21 “Were you a slave when you were called? Whoever was called in the Lord as a slave is a freed person who belongs to the Lord.” 

Ung-Young Kim is now an architect in Korea at the age of 59, living a seemingly ordinary life as a husband and father. People would never guess that he was once recognized as the man with the world’s highest IQ—210. By the age of four, he could already speak five languages. That same year, he enrolled in a high school in Los Angeles while simultaneously studying physics at a college in Korea. At the age of eight, he earned a master’s degree in nuclear physics from the University of Colorado. Shortly after, at just nine years old, he began working for NASA. 

As a child prodigy, he lived under special protection from the U.S. government. His future seemed secure, with every expectation of becoming a world-renowned scientist. Yet after six years at NASA, he walked away from it all. He returned to Korea, earned a GED, and enrolled in a small countryside college, determined to start over. 

Much later, in a TED Talk, he reflected that being a scientist—or living as a genius—was never what he truly wanted. Despite his fame and brilliance, he was deeply unhappy. While other children went to school and played with friends, he was isolated, surrounded by adults and bodyguards. He didn’t want to be special; he wanted to be normal. More than anything, he wanted to be happy. 

Now, working as an architect in a small town, he has found that happiness. He closed his TED Talk with these words: 

“The reason you feel isolated is that you try to be special. Don’t try to be special. Do what really makes you happy.” 

Another child prodigy, William James Sidis, entered Harvard at age nine. He knew eight languages and even invented his own language 

He lectured on four-dimensional bodies at age ten. Yet within ten years, he was working at a grocery store. He died at only 46. 

Both men had one thing in common: brilliance and worldly success were not the dreams they would have chosen for themselves. What they longed for was the freedom to live by their own choices. 

Real joy comes from choosing what we truly want to do. That joy belongs to us because it comes from our own will. Accomplishment feels real only when it springs from our own choice. 

In Christ, we are given this true freedom. In Him, we find joy when we call ourselves His servants. It sounds paradoxical—slave and free at the same time. Yet being bound to Christ does not erase our choices; it affirms them. Bondage to the Lord secures our genuine freedom and opens us to undeniable joy and a willing heart to follow Him. 

You belong to the Lord. And that belonging makes you truly free. In that freedom is the deepest satisfaction and joy. 

Comforted to Comfort 

2 Corinthians 1:3–4 “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort…” 

Jayden’s dorm room was filled with boxes and the smell of new beginnings. Susan had driven for hours with the car packed to the brim, and now, after the last suitcase was opened and the final shelf arranged, she lingered. She suggested they share one last dinner before she returned home. But Jayden, with a gentle firmness, reminded her that he had plans with friends that evening. He asked her to go ahead. 

It was a simple request, yet it weighed heavily. As Susan walked out of the dormitory, she felt the tug of an invisible thread pulling her back. She longed for just a little more time—one more meal, one more laugh, one more moment. But love often requires letting go. 

Driving back alone, she picked up the phone and called her own mother. And in that moment, she finally understood—understood why her mother once hesitated at the threshold of her dorm room so many years ago, unwilling to walk away. Her mom admitted that on the way home she cried, as any mom would when leaving her precious child behind. 

We say we understand others, but truthfully, our understanding is fragile. Unless we step into the same roads, taste the same tears, and carry the same joys, our comprehension remains partial. And if we did find someone who had truly shared our exact experiences, we would want to sit with them and talk all day long. To truly know another’s heart is nearly impossible. 

And yet, this is precisely where Paul’s words speak to us. Our own trials, our comforts, our sorrows—they are not wasted. They are gathered up by God, transformed into wells from which others may drink. 

Still, even then, we cannot wholly inhabit another’s pain. That is why we turn to the God of all comfort. He alone knows us completely. He alone walks every hidden corridor of our hearts. And only when His comfort fills us can we offer comfort that is real, not borrowed, not imagined. 

So remember this: before you can extend comfort, you must first receive it. May God’s peace find you today, and may it overflow from your life into the lives of others.