Proverbs 20

Posted on October 14, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

— The Human Spirit Is the Lamp of the Lord

[Poem as Reading the Bible]

Once more the storm is howling.
The first hard wind of autumn came up after supper,
stripping the last leaves from the oaks,
bending the crape myrtle to the ground,
and somewhere down the road a limb fell on a line.
The whole street went dark.
Things fall apart.
No streetlight.
No neighbor’s window.
No hum from the refrigerator.
Only the wind,
and my wife in the kitchen drawer,
feeling for matches.

She found the old oil lamp
we have carried from house to house for many years,
its chimney a little smoky,
and lit it, and set it between us.
A small flame.
A circle of gold,
and beyond it, the whole house gone to shadow.
We opened the Bible in that light
and read slowly,
the way people read for three thousand years
before the electric light.

The purposes in the human mind are like deep water,
but the intelligent will draw them out.

Like deep water.
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
How many people sat across from me in my study
and could not say what was really wrong?
The truth lay at the bottom of the well.
The art of the friend is to lower the bucket slowly,
with questions and with silence,
until it touches water
and something rises into the light.
I remember, by way of reflection,
Jesus at Jacob’s well,
drawing out of the Samaritan woman
the whole story of her life,
until she ran into town crying,
“Come and see.”

The righteous walk in integrity.
Happy are the children who follow them.
I think of my son,
and the footprints I left for him.
Some were crooked.
I pray the straight ones went deeper.

Who can say, “I have made my heart clean”?
Not I.
The flame leans in a draft from the window,
and I see my hands in its light,
old, spotted,
and I know what they have done.

Diverse weights and diverse measures
are both alike an abomination to the Lord.
The scale again.
The proverb will not let me forget,
perhaps because I keep forgetting.

The hearing ear and the seeing eye,
the Lord has made them both.
My ears are fading.
My wife repeats herself,
and sometimes I pretend I heard.
In this lamplight I hold the page close.
But the Lord made them both:
the ear that heard my mother’s voice across the sea,
the ear that hears the creek, the cardinal,
my granddaughter laughing;
the eye that saw the ridges at dawn,
my wife’s face when she was young,
my son’s face the day he was born.
Even fading, gifts.

Bread gained by deceit is sweet,
but afterward the mouth will be full of gravel.
If you curse father or mother,
your lamp will go out in utter darkness.
I look at the flame on the table.
So small.
One breath could end it.

Do not say, “I will repay evil.”
Wait for the Lord.
Wait.
More than those who watch for the morning.
Peace comes dropping slow.

All our steps are ordered by the Lord.
How then can we understand our own ways?
I do not understand mine.
Why I crossed the sea.
Why this city, these churches.
Why some prayers were answered and some were not.
Perhaps I do not need to understand.
I only need the next step
inside the circle of the lamp.

The human spirit is the lamp of the Lord,
searching every inmost part.

I put the book down
and look at the flame a long time.
The old English Bible said:
the spirit of man is the candle of the Lord.
I am not the light.
I am the lamp.
A little clay, a wick, a little oil,
and God’s own fire burning in it.
I remember the golden lampstand in the Holy Place,
burning all night before the veil.
I remember the bridesmaids with their lamps trimmed,
waiting in the dark for the bridegroom.

Searching every inmost part.
The lamp does not only shine outward.
God carries it through the rooms of my own heart:
the cellar, the attic,
the closet where old grudges are stored,
the corner where fear sits,
the room where I hid the shame of the strong years.
It does not shout.
It only shines,
and what was hidden is seen.
Not to condemn.
To heal.
To sweep the corners
and open the windows to the morning.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire,
I am no sage.
Only an old wick
that God keeps trimming.

The glory of youths is their strength,
but the beauty of the aged is their gray hair.
I look across the table at my wife.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
and nodding by the fire.
The lamplight on her white hair,
the lines around her eyes.
One man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
and loved the sorrows of your changing face.
More beautiful now than when we were young.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
a tattered coat upon a stick,
unless soul clap its hands and sing.
Tonight, in the dark,
my soul is clapping.
Light that has burned a long time
shines through clay darkened by smoke.

Then all at once the lights come back.
The refrigerator hums.
The stove clock blinks.
The porch light flares.
The ordinary world returns.
My wife leans over to blow out the lamp.
I touch her hand.
“Let it burn a little longer.”
And we sit in the bright kitchen,
watching the small flame.

God whose lamp is the human spirit, lit from your own holy fire,
who searches every inmost part not to condemn but to heal,
carry your light through the locked rooms of my heart and sweep them clean,
teach me to wait for you rather than repay evil,
and keep this old wick burning until the Bridegroom comes.

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Genesis 24

Posted on October 13, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

— At the Well of the Future

Abraham was old,
his years like rings inside a tree,
each one holding a season:
a wandering, a promise,
a wound, a blessing.
Sarah slept in the cave at Machpelah.
Isaac, the child of laughter,
the son who came down from Moriah alive,
was still alone.

So the old man called his servant:
“Go to my country and my kindred,
and take a wife for my son.
The God of heaven, who called me
from my father’s house,
will send an angel before you.”

Will send an angel before you.
The promise did not move
through armies or kings.
It moved through a servant,
ten camels, a long road,
and a young woman
who had not yet heard the story.

At evening he came to a well
outside the city of Nahor,
the hour when the women go out to draw water.
The sun was low.
The stones were warm.
The well went down into the dark,
where the hidden water waits
for anyone who will lower a jar.

And he prayed:
“God of my master Abraham,
let the one who says,
‘Drink, and I will water your camels also,’
be the one you have chosen.”

A simple prayer.
Not for beauty, wealth, or power.
For kindness that gives before it is asked.
Perhaps heaven hides its greatest signs
inside ordinary acts of generosity.

Before he had finished speaking,
Rebekah came,
the jar on her shoulder.
She went down to the spring,
filled it, and came up.
“Drink, my lord.”
Then she hurried:
“I will draw for your camels also,
until they have finished drinking.”

And she poured.
Again, and again, and again.
Ten thirsty camels after a desert road.
Down the steps into the cool dark,
up into the red light of evening,
over and over,
until the trough shone like a mirror
holding the first stars.
The future was being written
in water.

The man gazed at her in silence,
to learn whether the Lord
had made his journey prosper.
In silence.
Some answers can only be watched,
not grasped.

When he learned whose daughter she was,
he bowed his head and worshiped.
The prayer had found a face.

In Laban’s house,
water was brought for tired feet,
straw for the camels, bread for the stranger.
But he would not eat until he had told it all:
the old master, the promised son,
the prayer, the well, the woman, the water.
He never said, “I found her.”
He said, “The Lord led me on the way.”

Then they called Rebekah:
“Will you go with this man?”
And she said, “I will go.”

I will go.
How much courage
can live inside two small words.
No map. No promise of an easy road.
Only a story about a distant family
and a God she had not yet met.

I remember, by way of reflection,
my own leaving long ago,
the last look at my homeland,
the sea opening before me,
and those same two words in my heart,
trembling, but true.
Faith does not always begin with certainty.
Sometimes it begins with willingness.

Isaac had come from the well of Beer-lahai-roi,
the well of the Living One who sees me,
where an angel once found Hagar weeping.
And Isaac went out to meditate in the field
toward evening.

To meditate in the field.
The first contemplative in Scripture,
alone in the open land at dusk,
the wind moving in the grasses,
the sky turning rose and violet,
grief for his mother still close,
waiting for what he could not name.

He lifted his eyes,
and camels were coming.
Rebekah lifted her eyes,
and saw Isaac.
Two strangers in the evening light,
seeing each other across a field.

Isaac brought her into the tent of Sarah his mother.
He took her as his wife, and he loved her.
And Isaac was comforted after his mother’s death.

In the tent where grief had once lived,
love entered.
No thunder. No fire. No sea split in two.
A tent at evening, a lamp lit again,
two lives becoming one.
I think of my own wife,
crossing with me, choosing me, staying,
the lamp she has kept lit in so many houses.

The God who provided a ram on Moriah
provided a companion.
The God who saw Hagar at the well
saw a servant at another well.
Providence does not take the road away.
It meets us on it.
It gives us one faithful step,
then another.

Rebekah came to the well carrying water.
She left carrying a future.
Isaac waited in the field and was comforted.
And the God of the long journey
walked ahead of them all,
like an angel sent before,
like the evening star.

At the well,
the future had begun.

God who sends your angel before every journey into the unknown,
who hides your signs in a cup of water given freely,
give me Rebekah’s willingness to say, I will go,
and Isaac’s stillness in the field at evening,
and let love enter every tent where grief has lived.

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Genesis 23

Posted on October 12, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

— The Field of Tears

Sarah lived one hundred twenty-seven years,
and died at Hebron, in the land of Canaan.
Abraham went in
to mourn for Sarah and to weep for her.

The tent had gone quiet.
The voice that once laughed
at an impossible promise
had become silence.

The man who counted the stars,
who climbed Moriah,
could do nothing now but weep.
Faith does not make grief disappear.
Love makes grief unavoidable.

I remember, by way of reflection,
Jesus weeping at the grave of Lazarus,
though he knew that morning was coming.

Then Abraham rose up from before his dead
and said to the Hittites,
“I am a stranger and a sojourner among you.”

A stranger and a sojourner.
Long ago I crossed the sea
to serve in a new country,
and some evenings the old words return.
Perhaps we all live in borrowed tents.

“You are a prince of God among us,” they said.
Abraham bowed to the people of the land.
Grief takes the height out of us
and teaches us courtesy.

“Four hundred shekels of silver,
what is that between you and me?”
Abraham weighed it out by honest weight.
I have confessed the bent scales of my own heart.
Even at the graveside, justice belongs.

So the field, the cave of Machpelah,
and all the trees in the field
became his before the city gate.
God had promised the land,
yet the first ground Abraham held was a grave.
Not a palace. Not a kingdom.
A field. A cave. A place to lay down love.

The hand that opened on Moriah
opened again.
He could not keep Sarah.
He could carry her name.

As a pastor I have stood by many graves:
earth to earth, dust to dust,
a widow’s hand resting on the casket
as if to keep it warm.
Forgive me the years I did it like a task.
Every grave is a Machpelah.
Every grief deserves the full weight of silver.

At three in the morning the house is still.
SaRang sleeps. The crape myrtle stands dark.
I speak certain names more softly now.

Sarah sleeps in the field facing Mamre.
Abraham walks on.
And beneath the quiet soil,
like a seed fallen into the earth,
the promise waits for morning.

God who counts the stars and the tears,
who walks with strangers to the city gate,
teach me to weigh my love with honest silver,
to bury my dead with open hands,
and to wait beside every grave for the dawn.

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Genesis 22

Posted on October 11, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

— On the Mountain, It Shall Be Provided

After these things God called,
Abraham,
and the old man answered in the dark,
Here I am,
two words like an open hand
held out beneath the stars
before the question came.

Take your son, your only son, whom you love.
Each word a step nearer the heart,
the way frost creeps inward on a winter branch.
I cannot read this quickly.
I have a son.
I remember the smoke of Hinnom,
and the prophets crying, this God never commanded.
The whole story leans away from that valley
like a tree leaning from the fire.
I grieve for Isaac, who trusted,
for Sarah, left in the tent with no word,
for every child laid on the altar of a nation’s god
and never untied.

Abraham rose early.
I know that hour, three in the morning,
the house asleep, the lamp waiting.
He split the wood in the gray light,
each stroke of the axe a heartbeat,
sap bright on the blade like dew.

Three days they walked,
three nights under the same stars God once told him to count,
the boy asking about birds and hills and the way,
and on the third day, far off, blue in the haze,
the mountain.
I remember another third day,
a garden, early, a stone rolled away.

We will worship, and we will come back.
A sentence spoken past the edge of sight,
the way a lamp is carried into a room
before anyone knows what the room holds.

He laid the wood on his son.
The father carried the fire and the knife.
So the two of them walked on together,
footsteps on stone, breath in the cold,
the fire pot glowing like a small red star in his hand.
I remember another son, another hill,
the wood on his shoulders, the place of the skull.

Father.
Here I am, my son.
To heaven, here I am.
To the boy, here I am.
The fire and the wood are here,
but where is the lamb?
The question of every child,
waiting through Passover and altar and prophecy
until a voice by the Jordan says,
Behold the Lamb of God.

God will provide, my son.
The Hebrew says, God will see.
The God who saw Hagar weeping by the spring
will see, and in the seeing, provide.
So the two of them walked on together,
up into a mystery neither could name,
the clouds parting around them like a veil.

He built the altar,
laid the wood in order,
bound the boy,
lifted the knife.
The sun burned on the blade.
The whole sky held its breath,
the wind stopped in the thorns,
the birds fell silent on the slope.

Abraham, Abraham!
Twice, the way you shout a child’s name at the edge of a road.
Do not lay your hand on the boy.
Echo it softly:
do not lay your hand on the boy.
Here the Bible turns on its hinge.
God says no to the knife,
no to every god that eats children.
Let it be carved over every war room and every border tonight.

He looked up, and there, behind him all along,
a ram caught in a thicket by its horns,
like the well Hagar could not see
until God opened her eyes.
I remember a crown woven from thorns.
Instead of his son.
Two words that hold the whole gospel.

He named the place, The Holy One will provide.
Moriah, where centuries later the angel’s sword was sheathed
over Ornan’s threshing floor,
where the cloud of glory filled the house,
where the exiles laid foundations again, weeping and shouting.
It shall be provided.
Not was. Shall be.

Then the promise came down like starlight:
offspring like the stars of heaven,
like the sand on the shore,
the same sand Job said his grief outweighed,
now every grain a life still coming,
blessing for all the nations of the earth,
from my homeland across the sea
to the hills where I grew old.

He returned to Beersheba,
to the tamarisk he planted,
its roots drinking hidden water,
its shade waiting for an old man coming home.
And in a list of names at the foot of the mountain,
Uz the firstborn, Buz his brother,
the seed of Job’s long night,
and Rebekah, already drawing water at a far well.

Before dawn, far from my homeland,
I lay my hand on my mouth before the test I do not understand,
and keep two sentences in my pocket like warm stones:
Do not lay your hand on the boy.
The Holy One will provide.
And I look up, as Abraham did,
and see in the thicket of the world’s thorns
the Lamb provided, instead of us.

God who said, Do not lay your hand on the boy,
stay every hand raised against a child in every land,
walk with each parent and child who climb a hard mountain together,
open our eyes to the ram already waiting behind us,
and on your holy mountain, provide.

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Genesis 21

Posted on October 10, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

— The Laughter of Promise

The Lord visited Sarah
as dew visits the desert,
at the appointed hour,
written long ago
in the silence between the stars.

Her old womb opened
like a rose
after a hundred years of drought,
and a son was born:
Isaac,
laughter
blooming from the impossible.

On the eighth day
the covenant touched his flesh
like first light
touching a new leaf.

God has made laughter for me,
Sarah sang,
and all who hear
will laugh with me.

But on the day of the feast
a shadow crossed the table,
and Hagar and her son
were sent into the wilderness
with bread
and a skin of water.

In the desert of Beersheba
the water ran out.
She laid the boy beneath a shrub,
a small shadow
beneath a smaller shadow,
and wept a bowshot away.

But God heard the boy.

Ishmael,
God hears,
his name had always been a prayer.

Do not be afraid,
the angel called from heaven.
Lift him up.
Hold his hand.

Then God opened her eyes,
and she saw a well,
shining beneath the sand,
there all along,
waiting for eyes
washed clean by tears.

The boy grew
beneath the wide sky,
an archer
drawing lines of light
across the wilderness.

And at the Well of the Oath
Abraham planted a tamarisk,
its roots reaching for hidden water,
and called on the Everlasting God,
who was before the first sand
and will be after the last star.

Everlasting God,
fill my empty arms with laughter.
When I am lost in the wilderness,
hear the cry I cannot speak,
and open my tear-washed eyes
to the well already near.

Grizzly Island Wildife Area California February 2021.
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Genesis 20

Posted on October 9, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

— The God Who Guards the Promise

Abraham journeyed south
into the land of Gerar,
carrying an old fear
folded beneath his robe.

She is my sister,
he said,
and the half-truth fell
like a shadow
across the promise.

So the king took Sarah,
and the promise trembled,
a small flame
carried into a stranger’s house.

But God came to the king
in a dream of the night,
not as thunder,
but as a voice
moving through the dark rooms of sleep.

She belongs to another.

And the stranger answered,
My heart was whole.
My hands were clean.

I know, said God.
It was I who held you back.

Mercy had gone ahead
into the stranger’s house
before anyone knew
there was danger.

At dawn the king called Abraham.
What have you done?

I thought,
Abraham said,
there is no fear of God in this place.

Yet God was already there,
in the stranger’s conscience,
in the dream,
in the hand that did not touch.

How often I have feared
the very places
where God was waiting for me.

Sarah was returned,
honored,
her name covered with silver
and lifted from shame.

And the one who failed
was asked to pray.
Abraham lifted his hands,
and God healed the stranger’s house.
The closed wombs opened
like sealed gardens
after long drought.

The promise was not guarded
by Abraham’s courage.
It was guarded
by the faithfulness of God.

Lord who guards the promise,
when my fear tells half-truths,
go ahead of me into the stranger’s house.
Hold back what I cannot hold back.
Then let my failing hands still pray,
and open what was closed.

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Genesis 19

Posted on October 8, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

— The Hand That Led Them Out

Evening fell over Sodom
like a veil drawn across a wounded face,
and two strangers came
to the gate of the city.

Lot was sitting there,
and he rose,
and bowed,
and begged them:
Turn aside to my house.
Wash your feet.
Rest beneath my roof tonight.

Hospitality,
a small lamp
still burning
in a city that had forgotten light.

But before they lay down,
the men of the city surrounded the house,
young and old,
from every quarter,
their voices rising in the dark
like the cry that had already reached heaven.

The outcry Abraham had heard of
now pounded at the door.

And Lot, in his fear,
offered what was not his to offer,
his own daughters,
to the crowd in the night.

I cannot pass this line in silence.
Even the one who welcomed strangers
was broken by the city he lived in.
The daughters stood behind the door,
and no one asked
what was in their hearts.

Then the strangers reached out
and drew Lot inside,
and shut the door,
and the men outside were struck with blindness,
groping in the dark
for a door they could no longer find.

Those who refused to see the stranger
could no longer see at all.

Is there anyone else here who is yours?
the strangers asked.
Bring them out of this place,
for its cry has grown great before the Lord.

So Lot went in the night
to the men who were to marry his daughters.
Get up. Leave this place.
But they thought he was joking.

How often the warning of mercy
sounds like laughter
to those who are not ready to hear.

When dawn began to break,
the strangers urged him:
Hurry. Take your wife and your daughters.

But Lot lingered.

He lingered.

The fire was coming,
and still his feet were slow,
held by the house,
the years,
the city he had known.

So the strangers seized his hand,
and the hand of his wife,
and the hands of his two daughters,
the Lord being merciful to him,
and they led them out
and set them outside the city.

Mercy does not always wait for us to be ready.
Sometimes it takes us by the hand
and leads us out
while we are still looking back.

Flee for your life.
Do not look behind you.
Do not stop anywhere in the valley.
Escape to the mountains.

But Lot was afraid of the mountains.
Let me go to that little town,
he said.
It is so small.

And the stranger said:
I will grant you this, too.
Hurry, for I can do nothing
until you arrive there.

Even the fire waited
for a frightened man
to reach his small shelter.

The sun had risen over the earth
when Lot came into Zoar.

Then the Lord rained fire and sulfur
on Sodom and Gomorrah,
and overthrew the cities,
and all the valley,
and everything that grew from the ground.

But Lot’s wife looked back,
and she became a pillar of salt.

She looked back.

Perhaps toward a house,
a kitchen,
a garden,
a grave,
a life she could not leave.

Salt is the taste of tears.
She became what grief becomes
when it cannot let go,
standing forever between leaving and staying,
facing the ashes of what was.

I do not judge her.
I know that turning of the head.

Early in the morning
Abraham rose
and went to the place
where he had stood before the Lord.

The same place.
The place of his pleading.
Fifty, forty-five, forty, thirty, twenty, ten.

He looked down toward the valley,
and saw the smoke of the land
rising like smoke from a furnace.

No word is recorded.
Only an old man,
standing in the place of prayer,
watching the smoke rise.

And yet:
When God destroyed the cities of the valley,
God remembered Abraham,
and brought Lot out of the overthrow.

God remembered.

The prayer had not been lost.
It had gone ahead into the fire,
and taken a man by the hand.

Then Lot was afraid to stay in Zoar,
and he went up to the mountains
and lived in a cave
with his two daughters.

There, in the darkness of the cave,
in a world they believed had ended,
the daughters did what grief and fear
and loneliness can make the heart do.
They made their father drink,
and from that night
two sons were born,
Moab and Ben-ammi.

The story does not explain.
It does not soften.
It leaves the cave in shadow.

And yet I know
that from Moab,
generations later,
a young widow would rise
and say to her mother-in-law,
Where you go, I will go.

Even from the darkest cave,
God can draw a thread of grace.

God who remembers,
when my city burns, take me by the hand.
When I linger, lead me out.
When I look back in grief,
do not let me turn to salt.
And let my prayers, like Abraham’s,
go ahead of me into the fire,
and rescue those I cannot save.

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Genesis 18

Posted on October 7, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

— Beneath the Oak of Mamre

Abraham sat beneath the oaks of Mamre,
where the afternoon
had gathered its silence
around an old man.

Then three strangers
stood before him.

He rose.

Before he knew their names,
he offered water.

Before he knew their story,
he offered bread.

Before he knew
where they were going,
he offered shade.

Sarah kneaded the flour.

A servant prepared the meal.

And Abraham stood nearby,
watching the strangers eat
beneath the trees.

The leaves moved overhead.

The earth held its heat.

Nothing seemed extraordinary—

only an old man
welcoming strangers
into the small shelter
of his day.

Tenelach,
soul-friend,

perhaps this is where
the mystery begins:

God sometimes arrives
wearing the face
of a stranger.

Perhaps hospitality
is not simply
giving something away.

Perhaps it is
making room
for what we do not yet understand.

Then one of the strangers spoke:

When this season returns,
Sarah will have a son.

Behind the tent cloth,
Sarah laughed.

Not loudly.

A hidden laughter.

The laughter
of someone who has waited
too long to believe.

Her body remembered
what the promise seemed
to forget—

the passing seasons,

the years
that had quietly closed
behind her,

the long surrender
of hope.

Perhaps there is
a laughter
that rises
not from joy,

but from touching again
what we thought
we had buried.

The Lord heard her.

Is anything
too difficult for Me?

Sarah was afraid.

I did not laugh,
she said.

But the truth
remained between them.

You did.

And still—

the promise remained.

How gentle
and mysterious
is that mercy.

God does not
withdraw the promise
because Sarah laughed.

Fear does not
cancel grace.

Doubt does not
make God disappear.

Perhaps faith
is not the absence
of laughter,
fear,
or disbelief.

Perhaps faith
is allowing God
to remain with us
inside them.

Then the visitors
turned toward Sodom.

Abraham walked
with them.

And the Lord spoke
of the great outcry
rising from the city.

The suffering
had become a voice.

The men went on.

Abraham remained.

He stood there
between heaven
and a wounded city.

Only dust and ashes,
he said.

Yet he drew nearer.

Will You sweep away
the righteous
with the wicked?

Will not the Judge
of all the earth
do what is just?

Fifty?

Then forty-five.

Forty.

Thirty.

Twenty.

Ten.

Each number
became a smaller circle
of hope.

Each question
became another step
toward mercy.

Abraham did not
defend himself.

He pleaded
for strangers.

He dared to ask
whether justice
could leave room
for mercy.

And perhaps
this is where
the old man
becomes a different kind
of father—

not only father
of descendants,

but father
of intercession.

A man who stands
before God
with the suffering
of others
inside his heart.

Tenelach,
soul-friend,

teach me this prayer.

When I see
a wounded city,

do not let me
turn away.

When I hear
the cry of another,

do not let me
become accustomed
to it.

When I cannot
change the world,

let me at least
stand before God
and ask for mercy.

At seventy-seven,
I have learned
that I cannot
carry everyone.

I cannot repair
every wound.

I cannot protect
every future.

I cannot answer
every question.

But perhaps
I can still stand.

Still listen.

Still ask.

Still bring
the suffering world
into prayer.

The oaks darkened.

The afternoon
slowly became evening.

The visitors
continued toward Sodom.

And Abraham
returned to his tent.

Sarah was still old.

The child
had not yet come.

The city
still waited
beyond the hills.

Nothing had settled
into its final shape.

And perhaps
this is the place
where faith
meets my own life.

I do not know
what tomorrow
will become.

I cannot hasten
the promise.

I cannot solve
every sorrow.

I cannot see
what lies
beyond the hill.

But I can bring
bread today.

I can offer
water.

I can make
a place beneath
the tree.

I can listen
to the stranger.

I can let God
hear my questions.

I can ask
for mercy.

And then—

I can return home.

Not because
everything is resolved,

but because
I have entrusted
what I cannot resolve
to the One
who can.

Perhaps this
is the quiet faith
of an old man:

to welcome
before understanding,

to hope
without proof,

to question
without rebellion,

to intercede
without control,

to wait
without abandoning
the promise.

The wind moved
through the oaks.

The leaves
answered softly.

And Abraham
went home,

carrying a promise
he could not hasten,

a question
he could not answer,

and the memory
of a mercy
he had dared
to ask for.

Tenelach,
soul-friend,

sit with me
beneath the oaks.

Teach me
to welcome
what I do not understand.

Teach me
to laugh
without losing faith.

Teach me
to doubt
without losing You.

Teach me
to stand
between suffering
and indifference.

When the world
seems too wounded
to heal,

let me still ask:

Is there mercy here?

When my own years
seem too few,

remind me:

You are not finished.

And when I return
to my quiet tent
at the end of the day,

let me carry
not certainty,

but trust.

Not answers,

but mercy.

Not the power
to control tomorrow,

but the courage
to welcome today.

For I am
only dust and ashes,

yet You invite me
to walk with You.

And that
is enough.

Amen.

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Genesis 17

Posted on October 6, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

Abraham was old
when God entered the desert.

Not as storm,
not as flame,
but as a silence
deeper than the silence
between the stars.

“Walk before Me,”
said the voice within all voices.

“Become whole.”

And Abraham fell into the dust,
where names loosen
from the soul
like leaves from an ancient tree.

Abram became Abraham—
a small vessel
widened by the breath of God
until it could hold
the unborn nations.

Sarah received her hidden name.
Her barren years opened
like a sealed garden
beneath moonlit rain.

Isaac was promised:
laughter,
a bright seed
planted in the field
of the impossible.

The covenant entered flesh—
not merely a mark,
but a doorway:
the Eternal touching
what is mortal
and calling it holy.

Lord of the unseen promise,
enter the wilderness of my waiting.

Make my emptiness a sanctuary.

Teach me to bow
until my old name falls away,
and I rise beneath Your sky
carrying the laughter
of what You will yet bring to life.

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Soliloquy of the Mountain Rock

Posted on October 5, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹 太憲

The stone sits upon the mountain
as though it had been there before the mountain learned its name.

Long ago,
when ice still ruled the young earth,
some great hand of winter carried it— rolled it,
lifted it,
cast it forward— and left it here.

Since then,
millions of years have passed like birds across the sky.

Rain has entered its ancient silence. Wind has written upon its face. Snow has covered it,
then uncovered it, as though the seasons were searching for something buried in time.

The stone has never spoken. Never complained. Never rejoiced.

It has not waited for tomorrow, nor mourned for yesterday.

It simply is— held in the deep rhythm of becoming
without movement.

Yet sometimes
when I look upon it,
I imagine a memory sleeping
inside its darkness: a remembrance of motion, of fire beneath the earth, of glaciers moving like white kingdoms across the young world, of a time
when nothing had yet settled into its final shape.

Perhaps even stone remembers becoming. Perhaps stillness is not the absence of longing, but longing that has grown so deep
it no longer needs a voice.

Time walks across its skin. A thousand winters leave no complaint. A thousand springs bring no applause. The mountain changes around it, while the stone keeps its silence.

And yet
the whole world is gathered there— the storm, the sunlight, the cold moon, the migrating bird, the green moss after rain, the first snow of another winter.

The stone does not stand outside time. Time lives inside the stone.

To be stone is not to escape becoming. It is to become so slowly that movement
looks like stillness.

I sit beside it. The mountain breathes. The wind passes through the grass. Somewhere below,
water searches for the sea. And for a little while
I borrow the stone’s silence— its patience, its million-year breath, its freedom from the tyranny of hurry.

I think of my own years. How quickly they have passed. A child, a young man, a husband, a father, a pastor, a traveler, an old man sitting now beside a stone.

All those lives seem to move through me
like clouds crossing the mountain.

The stone does not ask how many years remain. It does not count the seasons. It does not fear the coming winter. It simply receives what arrives. Rain. Sun. Snow. Silence. Light.

Perhaps this is the wisdom
I have been seeking— not to become less alive, but to become less hurried.

Not to escape time, but to enter it. Not to demand that life change for me, but to let myself be changed by life.

I place my hand upon the stone. It is cold. Then warm. Then cold again beneath the passing cloud.

And suddenly I understand: the stone is not dead. It is only speaking in a language older than words.

It says: Be still. You do not have to hurry toward your ending. You are already inside eternity.

The mountain does not ask you to conquer it. Sit. Listen.

Let the wind pass through you. Let the years fall away like leaves. Let what must change change. Let what must remain remain.

And for one brief moment, I am no longer a man counting years. I am stone. I am mountain. I am silence
remembering movement.

I am the ancient earth
breathing beneath
my borrowed name.

And somewhere beyond grief and hope, beyond beginning and ending, the great wheel of becoming
turns without hurry.

The stone remains. The mountain remains. The sky moves. The seasons return.

And I sit quietly among them, learning at last that stillness is not the end of becoming— it is another name

for eternity.

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