Tag: vulnerability

International Migrants Day

International Migrants Day is marked each year on 18 December, inviting us to pause and really see the people behind the word “migrant”. It was established by the United Nations to recognise the millions who live, work, study, and raise families away from the place they first called home, often carrying both hope and grief in the same suitcase. Some move by choice, others by necessity, many by a mixture of both, yet all share the experience of crossing boundaries, visible and invisible.

The day shines a light on the contributions migrants make to societies, economies, cultures, and communities, contributions that are too easily overlooked or reduced to statistics. It also draws attention to the realities many face, exploitation, dangerous journeys, separation from loved ones, and the quiet strain of never fully belonging. At its heart is a call to dignity, fairness, and compassion, reminding us that human rights don’t stop at borders.

International Migrants Day asks more than polite sympathy. It challenges us to listen carefully, to resist fear-driven narratives, and to remember that migration is as old as humanity itself. It’s a moment to recognise shared vulnerability and shared strength, and to choose hospitality over suspicion, solidarity over indifference.

Bible 40 Themes 02 Covenant

Covenant is one of those biblical words that can sound distant, even legalistic, yet at its heart it speaks of relationship, commitment, and promise held steady across time. In Genesis 17, God says to Abram, later named Abraham, I will establish my covenant between me and you and your descendants after you throughout their generations as an everlasting covenant, to be your God and the God of your descendants after you. These words are spoken not into certainty, but into vulnerability. Abram is old, childless by human reckoning, living between promise and fulfilment. Covenant begins there, not with achievement, but with trust.

What’s striking is that the covenant isn’t presented as a contract between equals. Abram doesn’t negotiate terms or offer guarantees. The promise flows one way, grounded in God’s faithfulness rather than human reliability. This is an everlasting covenant, stretching beyond one lifetime, beyond one moment of obedience or failure, binding generations yet unborn into a story of belonging. It reminds us that faith has a long memory and a wide horizon. We inherit promises we didn’t earn, and we live in ways that will shape people we’ll never meet.

Covenant also names identity. To be your God is relational language, intimate and personal, not abstract theology. It speaks of presence, guidance, and care. In a world shaped by transactions, productivity, and conditional acceptance, covenant insists that relationship comes first. We aren’t held by God because we perform well, but because we’re known and named. Abraham’s new name marks that shift, from who he was to who he’s becoming, shaped by promise rather than past limitation.

Yet covenant isn’t passive. Abraham is invited to walk before God faithfully, to live as someone whose future is already spoken for. Covenant creates a way of life rooted in trust, generosity, and hope. It asks us to live now as if the promise is true, even when the evidence feels thin.

In our own lives, covenant can feel fragile. We’re aware of broken promises, fractured relationships, and our own inconsistency. Genesis 17 gently reminds us that the deepest promise does not rest on our steadiness, but on God’s. The covenant holds when we waver, stretches across time, and quietly insists that grace will have the final word.

Bible Reference: Genesis 17

A Reflection on Joy at Christmas

At Christmas, the difference between happiness and joy comes into sharper focus. The season itself is often wrapped in happiness, familiar songs, warm lights, shared meals, laughter, and moments of comfort and nostalgia. This kind of happiness is good and gift-like, but it’s also fragile. It depends on things lining up, relationships feeling easy, finances holding steady, and the ache of loss staying quietly in the background. When those things don’t fall into place, Christmas happiness can feel thin, or even painful.

Christian joy tells a deeper story. The joy of Christmas isn’t rooted in perfect circumstances but in the astonishing claim that God chose to draw near, not in power or certainty, but in vulnerability. The birth of Jesus doesn’t arrive in a calm, well-ordered world. It comes amid fear, displacement, political oppression, and ordinary human anxiety. That matters, because it means joy isn’t the denial of darkness, it’s light entering it.

Joy, in this sense, is a steady confidence that God is with us, not just when the table is full and the house is warm, but when the heart feels heavy or the season stirs grief as much as gratitude. It allows space for sorrow without surrendering hope. It says that love has taken flesh and pitched its tent among us, and that nothing, not loss, not uncertainty, not brokenness, has the final word.