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.

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.”