September 2026

Pastor Message: 

Wrestling in the Wilderness

Before leaving for the John Muir Trail, I wrote about Jacob wrestling through the night at the Jabbok River. I asked both you and myself: Did I find my truest self?

As I imagined my own wilderness, I expected breathtaking mountains, quiet prayer, and encounters with God. I did not expect that the hardest wrestling would take place within my own heart.

After only eight days on the trail, severe knee pain forced me to leave. I was deeply disappointed. My carefully made plans were falling apart, and I was angry at my own body. Beneath that disappointment was something more painful: I began to wonder whether I had become a burden to my friends.

I was falling behind, so one of my hiking companions gently suggested that I leave the trail at the nearest exit before my knee became worse. Looking back, I know it was a wise and compassionate suggestion. But in that moment, it felt like rejection.

A quiet voice inside me whispered: Why isn't my friend encouraging me to keep going? Why won't they slow down for me? Why isn't anyone willing to end the journey with me, for my sake?

Feeling wounded, I insisted on leaving the trail alone. The exit was supposed to be an easy, mostly flat five-mile walk. At least, that was what the map suggested.

Every step was painful. I was limping, without a map or cell connection. When I came to an unexpected climb, I became convinced I had taken a wrong turn. I turned around and retraced my steps, only to discover later that I may have been on the right trail all along.

My uncertainty nearly doubled the distance I walked on an injured knee.

Then the sky darkened. Thunder rolled through the mountains. Heavy rain began to fall. My water was running low, and I realized I had given all my food to my friends. All I had left was my trash. I thought, I am the fool who turned an “easy” five miles into a dangerous journey by wandering in circles.

As the storm gathered around me, another storm gathered within me. I replayed every disappointment. I blamed myself for pushing my body too hard. I replayed my friend's kind but painful words.

Then, after what felt like forever, I reached a bridge. On the other side stood another hiker—the first person I had seen in a long time.

“Am I on the right trail?” I asked.

“You're less than half a mile away,” she replied.

That was all. And somehow, that was enough.

If you ask me about the most memorable moment of the JMT, I would tell you about that the flat 5 mile hiking alone. Because hours of walking alone, I discovered something about myself.

The loneliness was real. The resentment was real. The anger was real. But the story my wounded heart had built around those emotions was not necessarily true. That distinction has stayed with me.

Our emotions tell us something, but they do not always tell us the whole truth. Fear can distort reality. Pain can reshape memory. Loneliness can make us interpret another person's love as rejection.

Walking alone revealed how quickly I can judge people I deeply love—and how quickly I can judge myself. When I am wounded, I can turn a moment of pain into a story of abandonment and believe the worst of people who are actually trying to care for me.

Perhaps this was part of my own wrestling.

When I first reflected on Jacob, I wondered whether his wrestling was really about Esau. Looking back now, I wonder if his deepest struggle was not with his brother at all, but with the fearful story he carried about himself, about Esau, and perhaps even about God.

Like Jacob, I entered the wilderness expecting to meet God.

Instead, I first met myself. I met my fears, my pride, my need for reassurance, and my desire to be understood and cared for.

Did I finally find my truest self? Not completely. Perhaps the wilderness does not give us a final answer about who we are. Perhaps it strips away some of the stories we have been telling ourselves and teaches us to look again.

I am grateful that God continues to meet us in our wrestling, patiently untangling the stories fear tells us and revealing, little by little, what is true. And I am deeply thankful for the people who continue to walk beside me—even when, in the middle of my own pain, I fail to recognize their love.

Perhaps discovering our truest selves is not a destination but a lifelong pilgrimage: allowing God, step by step, to separate truth from the stories our fears create.

More honestly. More humbly. More gently. And little by little, more able to recognize the face of God in the people who have been walking beside us all along.

Humbled,

Pastor Hyunwoong