When God Whispers across the Divide
Sometimes, the message isn’t thunder. It’s a quiet dictation—an afternoon’s whisper that slips past doctrine and lands in the heart. Today, I heard it again. Not in a sermon, not in a creed, but in the way sunlight touched the chapel wall where a Buddhist sat beside a Franciscan. In the way a Muslim elder nodded gently as a Jewish cantor sang. In the way no one corrected anyone, because reverence doesn’t need correction. God doesn’t compete. We do. He doesn’t ask for brand loyalty. He asks for love. And when we stop trying to win Him, we start to hear Him. Not as a possession, but as a presence. Not as a prize, but as a pulse—beating through every tradition that dares to kneel, sing, bow, or breathe in His name. I think He’s tired of our turf wars. I think He’s asking us to stop building fences out of scripture and start planting gardens of grace. Because when faiths worship together—not in uniformity, but in harmony—God doesn’t get confused. He gets glorified. And maybe...