Walking Gently with Mystery: Reflections on Angels, Discernment, and Purpose

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 Lately I have been reflecting on my journey with my relationship the Angels and how this journey has shaped not only my faith, also my sense of purpose. I truly  believe in angels.  I believe they help us fulfil our mission in life. There's a verse that confirms this:  “For He will command His angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.” Psalm 91:11.

It means that angels act in loving obedience to God’s will. Their presence is not independent, but part of God’s ongoing care for humanity. As I walk my life path, with clarity and sometimes uncertainty or both, I feel supported by divine guidance that protects, strengthens, and gently directs me toward what is good and true.

For a long time, my thoughts felt crowded. Questions, curiosity, longing, and faith all moving together, sometimes without clear edges. At the centre of it all was a simple truth: I believe in angels.

My curiosity led me to read religious books, especially “The Angels and Their Missions. According to the Fathers of the Church”, by Jean Danielou.  He describes angels as mediators of the divine, yet that order never violates human freedom. The belief that angels are mediators of the divine, and guides to humanity encouraged me to on a journey to explore how angels can help us.

It led me to explore different workshops over time. I completed an Aura-Soma workshop on angels — an experience that felt overwhelming, yet meaningful. I wanted to understand more. I wanted to connect. Later, I attended a yearly online workshop with Terah Cox. Some aspects resonated deeply and helped things fall into place, while other parts did not quite align with what I had been taught about angels within the Church.

Another workshop, this time on Divine Energy, introduced the idea of different levels of angels. That stirred something familiar in me. In Church, I had often heard names sung in hymns — always in Greek. I recognised the sounds but didn’t know their spelling, so I couldn’t explore them further at the time. Words like Seraphim and Cherubim would pass by during the service, leaving me quietly wondering what they were pointing to.

I have always been drawn to the mystical — not magic, not spells, not anything dark or manipulative — but the mystical that speaks of beauty, reverence, and holy mystery. The kind of mystery that cannot be fully explained. The unknown that invites wonder rather than control. This is what Danielou implied in his book. He suggests that mystery means not everything must be understood; instead, trust that guidance is present when clarity is absent.

Looking back, I realise God taught me to trust and understood my longing, especially when I felt isolated. Even, when my curiosity led me into unfamiliar territory, He kept me safe. He protected me and continually redirected me toward my true north: to love and serve God. When I drifted, He gently corrected my course, with help of my guardian angel.

My journey with the 72 angels eventually led me into a deeper appreciation of Judaism — the faith Jesus Himself was born into and taught from. In Judaism, angels are treated with deep respect. They are not beings at our command. They exist to serve God and to assist humanity in fulfilling God’s purposes, always under His authority.

When angels help, it is by God’s permission — not because we summon, chant, or attempt to control spiritual forces. This is why I struggle with many modern interpretations that link the 72 angels of the Tree of Life with magic or personal power. To me, this feels at odds with what Judaism — and Christianity — both teach.

So why continue to reflect on angels at all?

Because I am discerning my own work and calling. I work with angels as a way of reminding us that we are not alone, that there is an order and meaning to life beyond what we can see, and that our lives unfold within God’s wisdom — not through our own control.

Angels, as I understand them, are not forces to be activated or energies to be used. They are created beings who serve God alone. They are messengers and servants, acting only by God’s permission and always pointing beyond themselves — back to Him.

Throughout what has sometimes felt like a winding journey, God kept me grounded. He placed wise guidance around me and prevented me from misusing what I was learning. For that, I am deeply grateful.

At its heart, my work is about helping people slow down, reflect, and reconnect with their divine purpose. We all have one. I want to support those who sense that there is more to life than what is visible — and to do so in a way that is safe, reverent, and faithful. 

Have you ever felt that there is more than meets the eye?

Have you sensed that life holds deeper meaning than what you have been told?

Have you wondered about the great mysteries of life, yet felt unsure or even afraid to ask the questions? 

Mystery does not have to lead us away from God. When held with humility and discernment, it can gently draw us closer — into wonder, trust, and peace. 

“The angel is not a being to be possessed or mastered; he is a presence that leads us, by God’s will, into the hidden depths of divine order and love.” — Jean Danielou  "The Angels and Their Missions. According to the Fathers of the Church”

Your Personal Reflection

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When the World Feels Too Loud, and God Feels Too Quiet

Over the past couple of months, my mind has felt scattered and heavy. I’ve felt let down by family, overwhelmed by world events, and strangely alone — even in my faith. There are moments when it feels as though God has stepped back, leaving me to make sense of things on my own.

Just before Christmas, the Bondi tragedy shook me deeply. It drained the joy from the season and left a sadness that lingered. Innocent people lost their lives in a public place — families going about ordinary moments that should have been safe. No explanation can soften that reality.

What troubled me further was the sense that warnings had been given, yet nothing meaningful was done to prevent it. Afterwards came apologies, statements, and carefully worded responses — but very little reassurance that lessons had truly been learned. It left me wondering whether our leaders are more focused on protecting their own positions than protecting people.

At the same time, I witnessed something that stayed with me.

In the midst of fear and grief, the Jewish community continued to shine their light. During Hanukkah — a festival that commemorates resilience, rededication, and hope — families lit their menorahs, not in defiance, but in faith. Light was chosen over despair. Continuity over terror.

That quiet faith matters.

Scripture tells us, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light” (Isaiah 9:2). Time and again, the Jewish people have carried that light through history — not by denying suffering, but by refusing to let it extinguish hope.

This is something the world desperately needs to remember.

As communities across Australia expressed fear for their safety, what distressed me most was not the fear itself — fear is human — but the silence that often accompanies it when it is happening to someone else. When concern only becomes public once it affects “us,” something essential is lost.

I want to be clear: collective blame helps no one. Entire communities cannot — and should not — be judged by the actions or words of extremists. Most people want to live peacefully, raise their families, and belong. But silence in the face of hatred — wherever it appears — allows the loudest and most destructive voices to define everyone else.

As a Christian, this weighs heavily on me. Christianity calls us to love, to serve, and to shine light into darkness. Jesus reminds us, “You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden ” (Matthew 5:14). That call is not abstract — it demands courage, integrity, and responsibility.

Many Christians live this quietly every day, helping families through hardship without conditions, recognition, or expectation. Love like that is costly. It does not demand agreement, only humanity.

What grieves me is not difference, but disrespect. Not diversity, but ingratitude mixed with resentment. True coexistence requires mutual respect — not the erasing of faith or culture, but honouring the values that sustain one another.

So why am I writing this?

Because I am tired of pretending everything is fine.

Because I am grieving a loss of trust — in leaders, in institutions, and sometimes even in God.

Because I believe peace requires courage, not slogans.

And because the light we need will not come from shouting, but from those willing to stand quietly, faithfully, and truthfully — even when it is hard.

“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12:21).

I am still praying. Still questioning. Still asking God where He is in all of this — and what He asks of me now.

But I hold onto this: light, once lit, is never wasted.