The starlight in the night sky never asked anyone to look at it.

Yet it has traveled—
for hundreds of years, sometimes thousands—
flying through the darkness to reach us.

And in the briefest moment,
it brightens the instant I am looking,
then quietly disappears.

By common sense,
after coming from so far and for so long,
it could have demanded to be noticed,
or complained, “Why don’t you look?”

But instead, it simply shines—
silently—and fades away.

And that same light,
having vanished in one place,
appears elsewhere again,
illuminates another fleeting moment,
then disappears once more.

These small, wordless continuations
fill the empty spaces without a sound.

So when I look up at the night sky,
it is full of these “extra” lights—
quiet stars that ask for nothing—
and tonight again,
they illuminate a cold and dark world as their stage.

Come to think of it,
all of God’s creation is like this.

The mountains, the seas, the animals, the seasons—
each one remains where it is,
shining silently, without insisting on being seen.

Perhaps this is what it means for the Church to be the Church.

More than dazzling programs or sophisticated systems,
what truly shines in this dark world
is a community that stays—
quietly, faithfully—
for the sake of a single, fleeting moment
in which one soul is saved.

“You are the salt of the earth…
You are the light of the world.”
— Matthew 5:13–16