A friend told me this story the
other day.
Two weeks earlier, he woke up with
a mouth full of ulcers.
Not one discreet little ulcer
hiding in the corner — oh no — a full committee meeting. Every syllable felt
like sandpaper. Preaching with mouth ulcers, he said, is like attempting
Handel’s Messiah while chewing gravel.
So he rang the GP’s surgery.
The earliest appointment? A week
away.
There’s a sentence that stretches
both your patience and your theology.
In the meantime, he turned to the
time‑honoured
remedy: salt‑water rinses. Then more salt‑water rinses.
By day four his mouth tasted like an over‑salty ocean and the ulcers were
still thriving.
Eventually, the appointment
arrived. His wife came with him, partly for moral support, partly to ensure he
remained Christian in the waiting room.
They entered the doctor’s office.
No warmth. No welcome. No “How are you?”
Just: “What do you want?”
It felt less like a consultation
and more like a cross‑examination.
The doctor glanced in his mouth —
and when my friend says glanced, he means one second. He’s had longer eye
contact from a pigeon.
Tap. Tap. Tap on the keyboard.
“Go to the pharmacy. Pick up your
prescription. Goodbye.”
Ninety seconds.
They were in and out faster than a
Formula 1 pit stop.
The doctor wasn’t offensive. He
was efficient. Just distant. Detached. Disinterested. You know the sensation:
you’re not a person, you’re a problem to be processed.
The prescription didn’t work. The
ulcers and pain worsened.
So he rang again. To the surgery’s
credit, they offered another appointment three days later with a different
doctor.
They walked into the second
consultation.
“Hello! Come in! Take a seat.”
And immediately, something
shifted.
This second doctor examined his
mouth properly. Checked his ears. Took his blood pressure. Asked questions.
They even had a little banter about football and life.
Ten minutes. Same surgery. Two doctors. Two atmospheres. Two prescriptions. Two outcomes.
The second doctor’s prescription
cleared the ulcers within three days.
But as I listened to my friend, I
realised his story was not really about ulcers.
It was about us.
A Culture Running on Empty
We are living in an age of
relentless pace.
Deadlines. Notifications.
Commitments. Meetings. Messages. Metrics.
Efficiency has become our
currency. But empathy is becoming scarce.
The first doctor treated a mouth.
The second doctor treated a
person.
That distinction may sound small. That
difference is everything.
We underestimate the power of
tone. We underestimate the ministry of manners. We underestimate how much
kindness costs — and how much coldness costs more.
And here is the sobering truth:
the world does not only suffer from policy failures or economic instability.
It suffers from relational
poverty. From hurried conversations. From distracted listening. From spiritual dryness.
And this is precisely where our
Christian calling becomes urgent.
The Invisible Aches Around Us
Here is what troubles me most as I
look at our modern world through the eyes of faith.
There are people walking around
today with invisible ulcers.
Ulcers of resentment in marriages.
Ulcers of insecurity in children. Ulcers of exhaustion in parents. Ulcers of disappointment in
workers. Ulcers of doubt in believers.
They sit across desks. They stand
in queues. They scroll through phones late at night.
You cannot see their pain in a
scan. But it is there.
As members of Couples for Christ,
we proclaim a mission that is beautifully ambitious: the renewal and
strengthening of Christian families, and the evangelisation of society through
transformed lives.
But renewal does not begin on a
stage.
It begins at a table.
It begins in a living room.
It begins when a husband pauses
long enough to really listen to his wife.
When a parent kneels to understand
a child’s fear.
When a brother in the community
asks another, “How are you really?” — and waits for the answer.
Evangelisation is not only
proclamation.
It is presence.
Transformation is not only
dramatic testimony.
It is daily attentiveness.
We are arguably the most
technologically connected generation in history, yet loneliness has become a
public health crisis. We speak constantly, but listening is becoming rare.
And listening is not passive. It
is powerful.
The Example of Jesus
When we look at Jesus in the
Gospels, one pattern becomes unmistakable:
He was interruptible.
Crowds pressed in. Schedules were full. Needs were endless.
Yet when someone in pain stood
before Him, He stopped.
He saw Zacchaeus in a tree.
He noticed the woman touching His
cloak.
He wept with Mary and Martha.
He restored Peter with questions,
not condemnation.
He did not treat people as
interruptions to His mission.
They were His mission.
And this is the heart of Christian
transformation.
Not merely believing in Christ.
But becoming like Him.
In Couples for Christ, we speak of
personal conversion — a renewed relationship with Jesus that transforms every
dimension of life. But conversion is not only an interior event.
It changes how we look at people.
How we speak to them.
How we treat them.
A renewed heart produces renewed
relationships.
Renewed relationships build
renewed families.
Renewed families shape renewed
communities.
And renewed communities influence
society.
This is not sentimental idealism.
It is the quiet revolution of the
Gospel.
The Small Things That Shape Our
World
Modern society will continue to
prize efficiency. And rightly so — order matters. Systems matter.
But systems cannot heal
loneliness.
Procedures cannot repair broken
marriages.
Technology cannot replace
tenderness.
The second doctor did not perform
a miracle. He simply practised attentive care.
And that changed the outcome.
Imagine if our families practised
attentive care.
Imagine if our Christian
communities became known not for activity alone, but for warmth.
Not only for programs, but for
presence.
Not only for preaching, but for
patient listening.
What if the world encountered
Christ first through how we pay attention?
In a hurried world, slowness can
be prophetic.
In a cold culture, warmth can be
evangelistic.
In an anxious generation, peace
can be magnetic.
For those of us in lay communities
like CFC, this is precisely where our mission becomes concrete: in the school
gate conversation, the rushed checkout line, the tired spouse at the end of the
day, the struggling brother or sister in our household group.
The Prescription We All Carry
Most of us will never sit behind a
GP’s desk. But every one of us carries something just as powerful:
Our tone.
Our attention.
Our presence.
Our extra two minutes.
You may be the only gentleness
someone encounters today.
The only pause in their chaos.
The only moment they feel seen
rather than scanned.
Same office. Different spirit.
The lesson of my friend’s ulcers
is simple but searching: sometimes the greatest healing does not come from what
we prescribe, but from how we treat people.
We cannot fix everything. We
cannot solve every systemic problem. But we can decide what kind of presence we
bring into a room.
As Christians, as members of CFC,
as families in the Holy Spirit, this is our daily mission field. To let
Christ’s love shape our tone, our gaze, our pace. To bring the tenderness of
the “Church of the Home” into every encounter, and the compassion of the
“Church of the Poor” into every relationship.
And in the end, that may be one of
the most powerful prescriptions of all — a quiet, consistent, Christ‑like
presence in an ulcerated world.
