In a World Burning, We Still Believe

Some weeks leave a scar on the soul of the world.

This past week was one of them.

The world staggered under the weight of sorrow. Not one, but multiple tragedies unfolded across nations, leaving trails of ash, grief, and unanswered questions.

A Sky That Never Reached Its Horizon

Air India flight AI 171 was meant to be a bridge to new beginnings. Onboard were families, students, professionals—each carrying hope like luggage, dreams like boarding passes. But the journey ended in flames. The plane crashed before it could land, killing 241 onboard.

But the tragedy did not end there.

The plane slammed into the ground near a medical college. Young students, full of life and ambition, were sitting in their campus mess hall, eating lunch, laughing—when the sky fell on them. In an instant, dreams of healing others turned to unspeakable loss. The place meant for nourishment and community became a site of devastation.

The weight of that moment is almost too much to bear.

One person from the crash survived. One. And while that survival feels miraculous, it also feels unbearably lonely—because among the dead was his own brother.

Middle East: Fire Over Ancient Ground

Thousands of miles away, another fire was spreading—this time by human hands. In a volatile escalation, Israel struck Iran, killing a top military commander and several nuclear scientists. Iran’s retaliation came swiftly. Over 80 lives were claimed in the exchange.

Explosions lit up the night in residential zones. Posh neighborhoods once known for calm now echo with sirens and smoke. Oil depots burned. The air grew thick with soot—and with sorrow.

The land that gave birth to prophets is now drenched in fear and fury.

The West Wavers: Democracy in Turmoil

In the U.S., two lawmakers were killed amid political unrest. What should have been a space for debate and democracy became a theater of chaos and bloodshed.

It’s easy to assume the Western world is more stable, but events like these tell a different story—one where violence is no respecter of borders, systems, or status.

The Thread That Holds All This Together

What ties all this together isn’t merely geography or geopolitics—it’s the fragile condition of humanity.

We build. We plan. We pursue. But underneath it all, life remains precarious. A plane can fall from the sky. A missile can strike a school. A riot can consume what law once upheld.

And we are left asking: Where is hope?

The Ache of Absence, The Question of God

In weeks like this, belief can feel thin. Prayers may feel unanswered. Faith may feel shaken.

But Scripture is not blind to this kind of grief. It tells of a Savior who wept at His friend’s grave (John 11:35), who bore our sorrows (Isaiah 53:4), and who, even now, intercedes for a groaning world (Romans 8:26–27).

We are not the first to ask “Why?” We are not alone in our mourning.

God is not absent in suffering. He is present—often unseen, often unspoken, but unmistakably near. He is near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18). Near to the grieving father of the pilot. Near to the families who lost dear ones. Near to the classmates of the students who never finished their lunch.

The Miracle We Almost Miss

One survived. And in a week of mass tragedy, that survival whispers something: that not all is lost. That grace still flickers, even if faint. That from the rubble, stories of compassion and courage will rise.

Emergency responders who worked around the clock. Citizens who lined up to donate blood. Strangers who held each other and wept.

When we look past the headlines, we find humanity still glowing—dim perhaps, but real. 

This week reminds us how fragile life is and how near eternity stands. It reminds us we are not in control, and yet we are not abandoned. The God we trust—who weeps with those who weep, who walked into suffering, who promises to make all things new—He has not left the world. Not even now.

The lone survivor of the crash is not just a news detail. He is a thread of grace. A whisper in the firestorm. A flicker of hope that says, “I am still here.”

A Heavy Heart, a Holy Hope

We cannot undo this week. We cannot resurrect the dead. But we can remember. We can mourn. And we can choose to live differently.

We can slow down.

We can speak more kindly.

We can tell the people we love that we love them—now, not later.

We can pray not just with words but with lives that bear witness to hope.

As the Psalmist prayed: “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” —Psalm 90:12

Because we are not promised ease. But we are promised God.

And in the ache of this world, we hold on to this:

One day, every tear will be wiped away.
Every broken thing will be mended.
Every injustice will be answered—not with revenge, but with righteousness.

Until that day, we mourn with those who mourn.
We lament.
We love.
We live with trembling hope.