I notice how much our world loves what is loud. From early on, I was taught—sometimes subtly, sometimes directly—that power looks like volume, force, visibility. The strongest voice wins. The boldest leader prevails. Authority, we assume, must announce itself with certainty and strength; we see it daily. And if I am honest, I have, for a long time, thought that is how power is exercised, not realizing that genuine authority is entirely different from power.
I see it even in my faith. I hate to say it. There were moments when I expected God to act decisively, unmistakably, almost dramatically. I admit, I want doors broken down, problems solved quickly, injustice corrected with clarity and force. I understand now why John the Baptist, sitting in the silence and uncertainty of prison, asked his aching question: “Are you the one, or should we wait for another?” I recognize myself in that question. When life presses hard, I, too, wonder why God does not shout.
What unsettles me—and also draws me deeper—is that God rarely answers with noise. Instead of fire and axes, John heard reports of a man lingering at dinner tables, walking dusty roads, touching those everyone else avoided. Jesus Christ did not arrive with spectacles. He arrived with presence. And somehow, that presence changed lives.
I am learning that this is the quiet strength I often overlook: soft power. The power of Christ does not resemble the blunt force I am accustomed to trusting. It is more like water. Water doesn’t shatter a mountain in a moment; it finds its way patiently into cracks. It reaches places force never could. That image stays with me, because I know how many hidden, dry places exist within my own soul.
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Redemption, I am realizing, rarely happens in a single dramatic instant. More often, it unfolds through small, restoring encounters. A wound noticed. A word spoken gently. A dignity returned. Jesus did not demand submission; he invited transformation. He knelt in the dirt of people’s lives, and in doing so, healed infirmities they had learned to live with.
When I look at the posture of Jesus, I am challenged. He did not rule from a distance or protect himself with titles. He washed feet. He withdrew from applause. He spoke not in the earthquake or the fire, but in what Scripture calls the sheer silence. God’s power, it seems, is most active after the noise fades.
This kind of strength asks something difficult of me. Soft power cannot be exercised from afar. It requires nearness. To be redemptive, I must be willing to enter another’s reality—not as an expert or judge, but as a servant. That kind of presence costs more than authority ever does.
Advent—and really, every season of faith—confronts me with a quiet warning: “Blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” I admit that I sometimes stumble over a God who refuses to dominate, a King who wins by losing, a Savior who heals instead of conquers. Yet I am slowly persuaded that this is the only power capable of saving anything at all.
Blunt force may change behavior, but only gentleness changes hearts. Force can silence, but mercy restores. Soft power does not break what is wounded; it heals without shattering what remains.
So I ask myself, honestly and without defensiveness: Where am I trying to fix my life with force? Where am I pushing, insisting, controlling, rather than allowing mercy to flow into the cracks?
Today, I invite myself to trust a different strength—the strength of presence, patience, and compassion. The Spirit does not arrive with spectacle, but with a quiet assurance that says, I am here with you. And perhaps that is the power I need most.
Love
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Bishop Jos
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