🌿 Reclaiming the Spirit of Wisdom

 From the 60s to Now: The Fade of Discernment and the Call to Wisdom

There was a time when demonstrations carried the fragrance of conscience, courage, and unity — a spirit that echoed through the streets, inviting the world to listen. In the 1960s, peaceful protest wasn’t about performance or division. It was about truth spoken with grace, often at great personal cost.

Think of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. leading marches for civil rights in the United States. Among those who stood beside him was the Greek Orthodox Archbishop Iakovos, defying expectations by walking alongside a Black Baptist preacher. This wasn’t about religious identity or politics — it was Sophia, the Divine Wisdom of Christian tradition, leaping across cultural divides to make herself practical.

This courageous action is the very embodiment of Binah, the understanding aspect of the Divine Feminine in Jewish mysticism.

If Sophia is the sudden, blinding flash of divine justice, Binah is the sacred matrix that gives it shape, structure, and a pair of walking shoes.

This force is not soft or abstract, but quietly courageous, deeply reflective, and grounded in right action. Binah doesn’t shout; she discerns. She listens. She takes the raw spark of Sophia’s wisdom, births it into the physical world, and sustains the march with patience and love.

From Sophia to the Streets: What Changed?

Fast forward to today. Something’s shifted — not just in Australia, but across the Western world. Protests still happen, but the spirit feels different. Gone is the tone of humility, the inner authority rooted in moral clarity. In its place, we often find anger masquerading as truth, celebrity over substance, and a narrative that divides rather than heals.

We see this tragic shift vividly in how our society processes collective trauma and terror. Consider the horrifying Bondi Beachmassacre in December 2025, where an antisemitic terrorist attack turned a peaceful “Chanukah by the Sea” celebration into a tragedy that claimed 15 innocent lives.  

While the majority of the population felt profound grief and concern, a deeply troubling element within society actively tried to downplay the slaughter. During subsequent reviews, those who gathered or attempted to speak up about the targeted violence faced swift intimidation and threats across social media. For many everyday citizens, it felt as though substantial sections of the mainstream media fell silent or glossed over these compounding injustices, leaving the burden of speaking out to select independent voices like 2GB or Sky News.

When those who demand justice for victims of an antisemitic massacre are aggressively labelled as "racist" simply for speaking up, true justice is subverted. It stands in jarring, painful contrast to the streets being filled with highly disruptive contemporary demonstrations — where public spaces are blocked for prayers in the middle of political marches. This display is a world away from the unifying, respectful ethos of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. leading marches alongside Archbishop Iakovos.

Take also the Harbour Bridge protest in Sydney, which was heavily promoted as a “March for Humanity.” On the surface, it echoed the calls of past justice movements. But if you looked closer, stark contradictions emerged:

• Aggressive Rhetoric: Some protesters chanted threats like “destroy the bridge” — on the very infrastructure they claimed to march across for peace.
• Extremist Imagery: Banners displayed photos of known terrorists — yet this was heavily downplayed by political figures who later claimed they “didn’t see it.”
• Selective Empathy: Not a single word was uttered about the hostages being brutally held by Hamas at that time. No yellow ribbons. No calls for their safe return. Just a cold, calculated silence.

This is not Sophia. This is not Binah. It’s not even compassion.

Celebrities and the Death of Discernment

Another troubling trend is the increasing reliance on actors and influencers to shape public thought. Whether it’s net-zero policies, global conflicts, or truth-telling in politics — we’re increasingly told what to think by faces trained to perform, not to lead.

This sends a subtle but dangerous message: that the average person can’t be trusted to think, and that moral clarity can be outsourced to a PR campaign. In contrast, the great movements of the past trusted the people. They encouraged discernment, not division.

The “Woke” Spiritual Guard

In Australia today, there’s a noticeable shift: traditional religions, especially Christianity and Judaism, are increasingly sidelined — while “spirituality,” as long as it remains vague, non-confrontational, and palatable, is celebrated.

• Selective Respect: In many Western circles, Christianity is often mocked or dismissed, while Eastern or Indigenous spiritualities are respected, even idealised.
• Quiet Exclusion: At events such as the Mind Body Spirit Festival, this contrast became glaringly obvious. A Jewish healer was initially excluded due to her Jewish identity — a decision only reversed after public protests raised concerns about antisemitism. The question remains: why exclude her in the first place? The reversal appeared to be a form of damage control; without public pressure, this quiet form of discrimination would have gone unchecked. Sadly, antisemitism today often operates in these subtle, socially tolerated ways.
• Political Inconsistency: Politicians often identify with faith to appeal to certain voters, but avoid acknowledging it during formal, historic occasions. When Prime Minister Anthony Albanese was sworn into office, he chose a secular affirmation rather than taking an oath on the Bible, explaining that a Prime Minister should represent people of all faiths. While this may appear inclusive, it raises deeper questions about authenticity. If he publicly identifies as Catholic, why avoid expressing that identity during such a significant milestone? Meanwhile, former Prime Ministers like Tony Abbott and Scott Morrison faced intense public criticism for openly expressing their Christian faith.

There seems to be an unspoken rule in the general public: religious expression is only welcome when it fits the dominant cultural narrative. Otherwise, it is labelled problematic or inappropriate.

• The Shield of Labels: Criticism of groups like Hamas is often quickly labelled as “Islamophobia,” while the violent acts committed by the same group are overlooked or excused.
• Politicised Truth: “Truth-telling” has become weaponised — used more to divide than to heal. What could be an invitation to reconciliation becomes a narrative of blame, separating people into strict categories of “us” and “them.”

This climate reflects a loss of deeper spiritual discernment. It is far removed from Binah — the Divine Understanding that sees beyond surface labels and embraces nuance, context, and inner truth. It also distorts the essence of Sophia — Christ’s wisdom — who is not only compassionate but clear, not only gentle but discerning. True wisdom does not cancel, silence, or polarise. It integrates, reveals, and guides with both love and truth.

A Christian Reflection on Wisdom

In Christian tradition, Sophia (Wisdom) is seen as an attribute of Christ, described in the book of Proverbs and the Psalms as the one who stood beside God during creation. In the Orthodox liturgy, before the Gospel is read, the priest cries out:

“Σοφία! Ορθοί!” — Wisdom! Let us stand aright!

It is a call to sharp attention. Not just to hear the Word, but to receive it with humility, stillness, and openness. Christ did not coerce; He invited. He didn’t cancel; He transformed.

True Wisdom is never loud or trendy. She invites the soul into silence, discernment, and integrity. In both Jewish and Christian thought, wisdom builds up. It doesn’t tear down.

The Bigger Picture: A Global Phenomenon

The loss of balance we’re seeing isn’t unique to Australia. As goes America, so go many other Western nations. Movements that began with a vital, necessary message have quickly hardened into rigid us-and-them ideologies.

Dialogue has become dangerous. Forgiveness is treated as betrayal. Justice is regularly confused with mere punishment. Social media algorithms compound this by rewarding outrage over insight, leaving people afraid to speak—or worse, repeating scripts they don’t believe just to stay "on the right side of history."

But what if the right side of history is actually the side of wisdom — quiet, firm, and completely overlooked?

A Call to Return

Now, more than ever, we need Binah — true understanding. We need Sophia — divine and human wisdom, made practical. We need discernment over division, and spiritual depth over shallow activism.

Let us return to what was sacred in the spirit of the 60s — not just the aesthetics of protest, but the inner fire of righteousness, deeply rooted in love, clarity, and humility.

The Power of a Single Step

It is easy to look at the vast landscape of cultural division and feel entirely overwhelmed. We wonder how a single voice can cut through the noise of algorithms, or how quiet discernment can stand against the roar of the crowd.

But history reminds us that major shifts rarely begin with a multitude. They begin with individuals who refuse to compromise their inner truth. The monumental march in Selma didn’t start at the destination; it began with a single, courageous step forward by people who chose clarity over comfort.

Real change does not require us to match the volume of the world. It asks us to change the cadence of our own stride. When we choose to listen instead of shout, to seek context instead of passing judgment, and to speak truth with grace rather than anger, we are taking that step. We become the matrix through which Binah and Sophia can move.

You do not need to alter the entire cultural landscape tomorrow. You only need to align your next step with wisdom.

A Biblical Anchor

In a world that demands we rush to the frontlines of every loud and trendy grievance, Scripture offers a different path — a reminder that the path of the righteous is built on steady, divinely directed steps.

As the Psalmist beautifully captured:

“The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and He delights in his way.” — Psalm 37:23

When we allow our steps to be ordered by Divine Wisdom rather than cultural pressure, we find a firm footing. Let us stand aright, move with humility, and trust that even the smallest step taken in love and truth has the power to reshape the world.

Further trading 

1: https://colourawareness.blogspot.com/2026/01/when-world-feels-too-loud-and-god-feels.html

Book Review "The Women" by Kristin Hannah: Judgement, War, and the Forgotten Stories

 

Judgement, War, and the Forgotten Stories

 After reading the book “The Women” by Kristen Hannah, I reflected on the human cost of war, the danger of easy judgement, and the people history sometimes forgets. 

War is often remembered in headlines, history books, and politic. Rarely do we pause to consider the people who lived it. The young men and women sent to fight, the nurses who cared for the wounded, and the veterans who returned home carrying unseen scars…how often do we truly understand their stories? Reading “The Women” reminded me that behind every conflict there are real people, and sometimes the most important lessons come from simply listening.

The War I Remember as a Student

 When the Vietnam War was happening, I was a high school student in Australia. I remember hearing about the war on the news and seeing demonstrations against it. At the time I did not fully understand the anger directed toward the soldiers who had returned from Vietnam.

Many of those young men had not volunteered. They were conscripted through the national service ballot. Refusing to serve could lead to serious legal consequences. They were young and often simply obeyed the law and the orders of their country.

When they finally came home, many were met not with gratitude, but with criticism and judgment. I remember a teacher at my school—Fay Lopo, who was a Labor Party candidate at the time—openly condemning those who had gone to war. Even as a student, I struggled to understand that anger. These were people who had little choice; they were obeying the laws of their country and serving as they were required to. The idea of an adult, let alone a teacher, criticising young people for doing their duty never made sense to me. 

The Forgotten Women

Reading “The Women” revealed something I had never really considered before—the role of women in that war.

The novel tells the story of Frankie, a young nurse who serves in Vietnam and witnesses the horrors of war in hospital tents and operating rooms. These women cared for the wounded, comforted the dying, and lived with the emotional trauma of what they saw.

Yet for many years their service was barely acknowledged. History often remembers wars through political debates and military strategies, but it can forget the individuals who quietly carried the human cost.

 This is true not just in the United States—Australian women who served, particularly nurses, also faced delayed recognition for their bravery and sacrifice. Their stories remind us that heroism often goes unseen.  

Judgement and Understanding

The book made me reflect on a larger truth: it is easy to judge people who served in wars from a distance. Many of the young men and women sent to Vietnam did not start the war, did not make the decisions, and often had little choice about being there. Some witnessed horrors and suffered trauma, yet they returned home to criticism.

 Wars are decided by governments, but the burden falls on ordinary people. This is still true today. Veterans in Australia and elsewhere can be criticised or dismissed, even by those who have never served. The lesson is humility: we can question policies and governments while still recognising the humanity of those who served. Behind every uniform is a person, with a life, a family, and experiences that may leave permanent marks.

True understanding comes when we pause, listen, and reflect before passing judgement. 

A Harmony Haven Reflection

Soldiers often defend the very freedoms that allow people to question, protest, and debate. Yet sometimes, the weight of judgement falls most heavily on those who carried out their duty, rather than on the decisions that placed them there.

This raises difficult and uncomfortable questions: How do we seek truth without losing compassion? How do we pursue accountability without condemning those who may have had little choice? How do we honour service while still acknowledging the complexity of war?

Perhaps before we judge, we are being invited to pause—to recognise that most of us have never stood in those moments, never faced those choices, and may never fully understand what they require.

So maybe the deeper question is this:

If most of us have never stood in those life-and-death moments, is it truly just to judge those who were asked to act within them?

Stories like this remind us how easily judgement can take the place of understanding. War is not lived in headlines or debate. It is lived by people. Many soldiers are young, placed in situations they did not choose, asked to act in moments where decisions are made under fear, confusion, and survival. In those moments, it is not theory or politics—it is life or death.

At the same time, societies have the right to ask questions, seek truth, and hold institutions accountable. These are vital freedoms. But perhaps wisdom lies in how we hold these realities together: don’t be quick to judge if you have never been in a war zone, and don’t take reports at face value, especially when media outlets may have their own agendas.

For example, a recent court case involving the ABC and Heston Russell illustrates this tension. The ABC reported alleged misconduct by Australian special forces in Afghanistan. Heston Russell argued the reporting was false and harmed his personal and professional reputation. The court found some aspects of the reporting were inaccurate and that the ABC could not fully rely on public interest as a defense. As a result, Russell was awarded damages, meaning the ABC had to compensate him.

This case highlights how media narratives can sometimes disregard the sacrifices of soldiers, shaping public opinion while overlooking the danger and responsibility these individuals face. Living far from conflict, it is easy to forget the weight of service and the human lives involved.

Soldiers often defend the very freedoms that allow us to question, debate, and speak openly. Yet perhaps our truest act of respect is to seek understanding before judgement, remembering the extraordinary circumstances under which they serve.

So maybe before making a judgement ask yourself:

If you had to make life-or-death decisions under fear and confusion, how would you want others to understand your choices?

A Bible Verse to Close  

“Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.” - Ephesians 4:2

This verse reminds us to approach others with humility and compassion, especially those who have lived through hardships we may never fully understand.

If you feel drawn to reflect more deeply on these themes, you may wish to explore The Women by Kristen Hannah.

To Sum Up

Reading “The Women” by Kristen Hannah made me reflect on how society treated veterans of the Vietnam War.Many were young, some were conscripted, and many carried the burden of decisions they did not make. Before judging others, we should first try to understand the human story behind the headlines.

After the Resurrection: Watchful, Not Reactive – Are We Applying the Beatitudes Consistently?

 A reflection for Christians and spiritually minded readers who want to stay rooted in Christ—especially when politics and media pressure us to react.

In the days after Holy Week, I’ve found myself returning to the Beatitudes—not as poetic lines to admire, but as a pattern for how Christians are meant to live.

Christ is risen. And that means the story doesn’t end at the empty tomb—it continues in us.

So I keep coming back to one question: what does it look like to respond to Christ’s call now?

It’s easy to fall back into the noise—reacting quickly, judging swiftly, and letting the loudest voices set our focus. I’ve felt unsettled by how easily that happens, especially when media coverage turns faith and politics into a constant clash.

For example, I’ve noticed how quickly many Christians speak with sharp certainty about Donald Trump—often with intense criticism—while other crises receive comparatively little attention.

If you dislike him, you’ll recognise the impulse to comment; if you support him, you may feel protective. Either way, my concern here isn’t tribal loyalty—it’s whether our attention and compassion are being discipled by Christ or by the outrage cycle.

In Iran, Christians are targeted for their faith. Converts can face severe punishment, freedom of speech is restricted, and religious minorities experience ongoing oppression—including arrests and long prison sentences. Yet in the West—where we can criticise leaders openly and safely—our attention can narrow. We may spend enormous energy denouncing public figures we dislike while overlooking believers who suffer far greater injustice, largely out of view.

The Resurrection calls us to something deeper than that.

Christ did not rise so we could return to old patterns. He invites us into greater awareness, truth, and responsibility.

I think of the parable of the ten virgins and their lamps. The wise were prepared; the foolish were not. The difference wasn’t just belief—it was readiness: staying awake, attentive, and watchful.

Sometimes I wonder if we’ve become unprepared in a different way: not because we lack information, but because we’ve trained our attention to react to whatever is closest, safest, and most talked about.

To be watchful isn’t to live in fear. It’s to live with clarity—refusing to be swept along by emotion, social pressure, or popular opinion.

But many of us do the opposite. We speak boldly where it is safe—criticising Western leaders and public figures—while staying quiet about Christians who face real danger in places like Iran. When our compassion and outrage become selective, that isn’t discernment; it’s complacency. Like the foolish virgins who let their lamps run out of oil, we risk being unprepared—not because truth isn’t available, but because our attention has been misdirected.

For me, this comes down to treating the Beatitudes not as distant ideals, but as practical commitments:

• Seeking peace, while also loving truth.
• Showing mercy, while also keeping sincerity of heart.
• Hungering and thirsting not for what sounds right, but for what is right.

What watchfulness can look like in practice

• Pause before you post or share: ask, “Is this true, necessary, and charitable?”
• Widen your attention: make room for stories outside your usual feed—especially the suffering of persecuted Christians and vulnerable communities.
• Pray first, then speak: let intercession shape your tone before commentary shapes your spirit.
• Practice consistency: apply the same moral standards to your ‘side’ as you do to the other.
• Choose formation over performance: seek what makes you more like Christ, not what earns applause.

With that in mind, here are a few questions I’m asking myself—and maybe they’ll be helpful for you too:

Are we applying the Beatitudes consistently?

“Blessed are the peacemakers” is often quoted. But peacemaking can’t stop at the places where speaking is easiest. It should also move us toward prayer, awareness, and solidarity with believers who face open persecution.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness” calls us to pursue what is true and right fully—not selectively.

I’ve also been thinking about how Christian voices—including leaders, teachers, and influencers—speak in moments like these. For Catholics, that includes the Pope. When public statements (from any Christian platform) focus heavily on Western political flashpoints, while the daily suffering of persecuted Christians receives far less attention, it’s worth asking whether our vision has become narrowed by the news cycle.

Putting most of our energy into criticising leaders where it is safe, while overlooking suffering where it is costly to notice, isn’t the watchfulness Christ calls us to.

To be clear, I’m not writing this to defend Donald Trump or to attack the Pope. And I’m not denying that moral critique and calls for peace can be necessary.

It’s about what is shaping us: discipleship to Christ—or discipleship to popularity, outrage cycles, and cultural pressure.

Christ did not follow the crowd.

He did not speak only where it was safe.

And He did not apply truth unevenly.

So maybe the most important place to look isn’t “out there,” but in here:

• Am I reacting, or am I discerning?
• Am I being fair in what I acknowledge—and what I choose to overlook?
• Am I living the Beatitudes consistently, or only when it is comfortable?

These aren’t easy questions. But in the light of the Resurrection, they feel essential.

Christ’s rising is an invitation for us to rise too—

not into reaction, but into awareness; not into judgment, but into discernment; not into following the crowd, but into readiness.

Because the ultimate question isn’t only what is happening around us.

It’s what we are becoming in response.

Are we ready? Not just informed—but formed.

Reflection:Easter, Passover, and the Paradox of Time: A Journey of Faith and Freedom

When Time Is Not Linear: Pascha, Passover, and Why the Date Still Matters

Every year around Easter, I find myself reflecting on time — not just dates on a calendar, but how faith understands time itself.

Christians do not all celebrate the Resurrection on the same day. The Western Church follows the Gregorian calendar, while the Eastern Orthodox Church calculates Pascha using the Julian calendar. As a result, Easter and Pascha often fall on different dates, even though we are celebrating the same event. Within each tradition, there is agreement. Between traditions, there is difference.

At first glance, this may seem like a technical or historical curiosity. For me, it is something much deeper.

Why Pascha Matters to Me

What feels most meaningful to me in the Orthodox Church is that the calculation of Pascha remains closely connected to the Jewish Passover — not only in dates, but in meaning.

The word Pascha comes directly from the Hebrew Pesach, the name Jews use for Passover. This is not incidental. It reminds me that Christ’s Resurrection is not detached from history but rooted within it. Christianity does not appear suddenly, fully formed; it grows directly out of Judaism. Christ is the fulfillment of an ancient promise, not a replacement for it.

Because of this, Orthodox Pascha often falls in the same season as the Jewish Passover. That closeness has always felt important to me. To me it is mystical.

A Moment That Made It Real

I remember visiting my cousins in Melbourne, in a predominantly Jewish neighbourhood. As our church was observing Palm Sunday, families around us were preparing for Passover. Seeing these celebrations unfold side by side made something click for me.

Jesus did not live outside Jewish life. He lived fully within it — within its festivals, its rhythms, its history. His earthly family, His teaching, and His final Passover meal were all deeply Jewish realities. This is something Christians can easily forget.

That moment reminded me that faith is not abstract. It is lived, inherited, remembered, and practiced across generations and communities. I also saw the connection of Judaism with  Christianity. What Jesus taught came from Judaism. Sometimes Christians forget.

Time From an Orthodox Prospective.

For me, the Orthodox understanding of time goes even deeper. I recently discovered.

In Orthodox worship, the past is not merely remembered — it is made present.

What happened in Christ’s life is not just something we remember from long ago. In the Church, we experience it again in the present. When we celebrate Palm Sunday or Pascha, we are not acting out history or marking a date on the calendar. We are stepping into the story ourselves.

By keeping the older Julian calendar for Pascha (Easter), I feel the Church is holding on to more than a date. It keeps the deeper meaning behind the way the Easter story fits together — Christ coming after and fulfilling Passover. That sequence matters to me, even if it is less “accurate” by modern astronomical standards.

While Western churches calculate Easter with greater precision, preserving this historical and theological relationship feels essential. Changing the calculation to align fully with the Western calendar would risk losing something intangible but profound — a mystical awareness that binds history, worship, and meaning together.

Freedom, Responsibility, and Love

This closeness between Pascha and Passover feels especially beautiful because both traditions teach that freedom is sacred.

Passover proclaims liberation as a divine gift and a responsibility. Easter continues that story through Christ, revealing that we are saved by Him and freed not for self‑interest, but for love. His life and sacrifice show that forgiveness and mercy are the true guides of freedom.

We are not left to struggle alone in trying to be good. Easter proclaims that we are freed by Christ, called to live responsibly, and invited to reflect His love in the world.

Across both traditions, the moral vision aligns: our actions matter, freedom carries responsibility, and love stands at the centre.

What “Christ Is Risen” Means

In the Orthodox Church, saying “Christ is Risen” is not just remembering a moment in history. It is a declaration that life has overcome death. When I say it at Easter, my heart reacts, it feels joy.

Christ’s Resurrection proclaims that death does not have the final word. Fear, suffering, and loss are real, but they are not ultimate. Life, love, and hope are stronger.

This is why Pascha is not quiet or restrained. It is joyful, loud, and full of light. The Resurrection is not treated as an idea or a metaphor, but as a victory that continues to shape the present. Christ conquers death.

When Orthodox Christians proclaim, “Christ is Risen,” they are saying that even in a broken world, life wins — and that truth changes how we live. It gives us hope in this crazy world.

A Season of Greeting and Gratitude

To everyone celebrating this season:

Χριστός Ἀνέστη! — Christ is Risen!
Καλή Ἀνάσταση! — Have a blessed Resurrection!
Chag Pesach Sameach! — Happy Passover!

These greetings belong together. They reflect a shared story — one lived, remembered, and renewed across generations. 

I love greeting my family and friends in Greek Χριστός Ἀνέστη on Easter Night, and the next 40 days after Easter we greet each with this greeting. Between now and until Easter Sunday next week we greet each other with Καλή Ἀνάσταση! I feel that I am living the easter story from its very beginning.

Easter encourages reflection and gratitude. It reminds me that love, freedom, and faith are not ideas alone. They are practices, relationships, and acts of remembrance that shape how we live now.

Questions for Reflection

In a world where mistrust and division seem to be growing, how can we practice the unconditional love that Christ taught?

And thinking practically: would you like Easter to be celebrated on the same date across all Christian traditions? If so, what should guide that decision — history and tradition, or closer alignment with Passover?

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

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

Would you like to share your experience with mysteries of life?

 

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.

What light are we being called to carry when the world around us feels dark?

🕊️ Why Australians are Concern: Fear, Free Speech & the Hillel Fuld Visa Ban

The recent cancellation of Hillel Fuld’s visa to Australia has stirred deep concern among Australians who believe in freedom of speech, public safety, and balanced political representation. As someone who is not Jewish, I still felt a responsibility to write to Home Affairs Minister Tony Burke and Prime Minister Anthony Albanese, protesting the unfairness of this decision.

Silence Is Not Safety

In our democracy, when peaceful individuals are banned from entry based on opinions rather than incitement, it’s not safety—it’s censorship. Mr. Fuld is a speaker, not a criminal. He has no terrorist affiliations. Yet while his entry was blocked, we see refugees from Gaza entering without clear transparency about possible terrorist connections. Why is this risk overlooked?

Since Labor has been in office, more criminals from the refugee population have been released, with blame shifted to the High Court. The response? Weak legislation and a refusal to take real accountability. Blocking Mr. Fuld is being framed as an act of security, but it reads more like political theatre.

Fear Is Not Hatred

The term Islamophobia is now being overused—not to protect Muslims, but to silence legitimate debate. The word means “fear of Islam,” not hatred. This fear has been created not by ordinary Muslims, but by the actions of fundamentalist groups, and by a government that seems more interested in pleasing minority extremist voices than protecting everyday Australians.

People don’t hate Muslims—they fear the consequences of a government that prioritises ideology over safety. That’s a distinction this government must understand if we are to truly live in harmony.

Labor Doesn’t Have a Green Light

Let’s be clear: Labor’s primary vote did not increase. They won due to preferences, many from conservative minor parties like One Nation. That’s not a blank cheque to govern without accountability. Ministers like Tony Burke hold public office, not party office—they are meant to represent all Australians, including those who didn’t vote for them.

Peaceful Protest Begins with a Pen

The response to this government’s silence should not be demonstrations that disrupt lives, but rather a quiet, powerful protest: the written word. I encourage every concerned Australian to send polite but firm emails to your MPs. Ask questions. Demand transparency. The pen is mightier than the sword, and peaceful resistance is still our strongest tool in a democracy.

This government’s silence strategy is designed to wear us down, to discourage response, and to push people toward more extreme reactions. Don’t give them that power. Keep writing.

📩 How You Can Help

• Write to Tony Burke and Anthony Albanese.
• Encourage friends to send emails, too.
• Share this blog and help more voices be heard.

✍️ Final Thought: Seek Only the Truth

This blog isn’t about taking sides. It’s about restoring balance and ensuring that all narratives can be heard, as long as they respect the Western values that form the foundation of this country. Banning voices that challenge a left-wing narrative while opening the door to extremist influence is not harmony—it’s division.

The current government is urged to review its decision to cancel Mr. Hillel Fuld’s visa. The focus should be on preventing terrorists and fundamentalists from entering Australia—not silencing speakers with differing viewpoints. This government was elected to represent all Australians, not just its political base. Yet, through silence and selective policies, it appears to prioritise only one group. Let your actions reflect the responsibility to serve the entire nation.

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