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.
No comments:
Post a Comment