Knowledge

Now that I’ve reached a general understanding of You, I find myself asking: what do I do with it?

I don’t feel a calling to ministry or to be a missionary in a far-off country. So, what good is this knowledge? These lessons You’ve taught me—surely, they’re not meant for me alone. Could they be?

It feels wasteful to keep them to myself when they could be shared, shouted from mountaintops, echoing in the hearts of others who seek the same truths. The rocks themselves would cry out if I didn’t praise Your name. And yet, amidst this fervent desire to proclaim Your goodness, I wrestle with uncertainty.

Who am I supposed to share this with? No one’s asking me what I think anyway. I wonder if my insights have any real value. And even if they do, I’m not an eloquent speaker—my words stumble over each other like children learning to walk. Everything You’ve opened my eyes to has likely already been seen, explored, and articulated by others far more capable than I am.

So why me? Why am I doing this? Why are You doing this? Is it all an exercise in futility, or is there a deeper purpose hidden in the quiet whispers of revelation I encounter?

Worth Repeating

Maybe the fact that it isn’t new doesn’t mean it isn’t worth repeating. Maybe the clumsiness of my words doesn’t disqualify them from being spoken.

Perhaps this is another lesson in pride and humility, a reminder that the most valuable teachings often emerge from vulnerability. I am proud enough to clothe myself in my knowledge of You, yet I know this pride can cloud my judgment.

I carry my arrogance like a badge, strutting it in front of others to create the illusion of wisdom. I puff out my chest, putting on a show to seem smarter, hoping to earn admiration. But You see through it all.

Perhaps that’s why You haven’t called me to ministry—because You know how easily a stage can become a throne for someone who hasn’t tempered their knowledge with humility.

Missing the Point

So, what have I missed?

This whole time, I’ve treated my insights like a weapon, always ready to fire off a round of prepackaged thoughts, believing they would impress those around me. I’ve been so consumed with sharing my own revelations that I’ve neglected to create space for others to share theirs.

No wonder no one asks what I think—I’ve already told them, unprompted. I’ve drowned out their perspectives with my relentless monologues, silencing the conversations I so desperately long for.

Maybe this knowledge was never meant to be worn like clothes or wielded like a sword.

Maybe it was meant to be stripped away.

Back to Eden

Perhaps the knowledge of You isn’t meant to cover me but to uncover me, peeling back the layers I’ve hidden behind for so long.

I’ve worn my knowledge like a heavy cloak, but maybe it was meant to strip me down—to bring me back to the nakedness of Eden, where nothing was hidden from You. Where my vulnerabilities and fears could be laid bare, and You could be fully known.

Perhaps that is the lesson: not to wear knowledge like a cloak or wield it like a weapon, but to offer it humbly, trusting that You will use it as You see fit. In recognizing the limits of my understanding, I begin to see the beauty of humility.

Maybe I don’t need all the answers yet. Maybe the journey of seeking adds richness to life. Maybe the point isn’t to have my words resonate far and wide, but to speak honestly and listen well, embracing the quiet moments where true growth happens.

If even one heart is touched—whether mine or someone else’s—then none of this is wasted. Even the smallest ripple can create waves of change in ways I can’t foresee.

A New Approach

Help me remember that this knowledge isn’t meant to puff me up, but to break me down. It’s meant to disarm me, so that Your words—not mine—are heard. Help me step aside, letting Your truth shine through, illuminating paths for others as I walk my own.

Father, I often pray for You to move me out of the way, and I pray it again now.

Help me tighten my tongue and loosen my ears, to truly listen to Your guidance and discern Your will. Your voice is far more important than my ramblings; it is the anchor that grounds me in uncertainty.

Strip me of myself—my pride, my ego—and clothe me in Your righteousness. Let me reflect Your love and grace in this world. Move me out of the way, so that only Your will is done and Your message is heard.

Amen.

-The Contemplator