Genesis 41:1-16,25-37 and 1 Corinthians 4:8-13
There is a strange and sacred power in what stirs us from within. Sometimes it comes in the night, as with Pharaoh, waking us with a trembling heart. Sometimes it comes during the day, a quiet unrest that will not let us go. Whether in dreams or in waking life, Scripture invites us to pay attention to these stirrings. Not to brush them off, not to spiritualize them hastily, and certainly not to outsource them to quick answers—but to discern. To sit with them. To ask: What is God doing here? What does this stir in me?
This is the gift—and the challenge—of today’s readings.
Let’s begin with the Pharaoh in Genesis 41. We might be surprised to say it, but this Pharaoh is not the bad guy of the Exodus story. This Pharaoh is different. This is a Pharaoh who listens.
We’re told that Pharaoh has two vivid, disturbing dreams. The text says, ‘His spirit was troubled.’ According to other translations, his spirit was shaken, unsettled, even broken. He sensed that these were not ordinary dreams.
He does not ignore the stirring. He doesn’t repress it. He seeks help—not just from his magicians or advisors, but from Joseph, a prisoner, a Hebrew, someone foreign and easily disregarded. But Pharaoh is willing to listen.
And Joseph, for his part, is not a fortune teller. He doesn’t claim magic insight. What he offers is discernment. Joseph says humbly, ‘It is not I, but God who will give Pharaoh a favourable answer.’ In other words, discernment is not prediction. It is prayerful, careful attentiveness to what God is doing beneath the surface.
This story reminds us that discernment takes courage. It takes humility. It takes an openness to be changed by what we hear.
And in our lives today, this raises the question: Are we paying attention to the stirrings in our hearts? Are we carving out space to reflect—not just on the dreams we have while asleep, but the dreams, intuitions, questions, and yearnings that rise in our waking life? Do we take them seriously, or are we too quick to dismiss them?
Many of us may find ourselves feeling this stirring—maybe in our vocations, our relationships, our hopes for justice, our questions of faith. The text invites us not to rush past this, but to linger. It invites us to discern, like Pharaoh and Joseph, what God might be showing us—not in a crystal-ball way, but through honest listening and faithful reflection.
In contrast, the Corinthian church seems to be in troubling confusion. Paul writes with passion, frustration, and even sarcasm in 1 Corinthians 4. He critiques a community that has become overly obsessed with Stoic and Cynic philosophies—schools of thought that emphasise self-control, reason, and detachment. These are not inherently bad. In fact, as someone who has spent time in philosophy myself, I know these systems have deep wisdom.
For example, Stoicism teaches us to focus on what we can control and accept what we cannot. Cynicism challenges social and cultural norms imposed on us, and encourages authentic, simple living. There’s something attractive in that, especially in a world as chaotic and pressured as ours.
But Paul is concerned. His issue is not with philosophy itself, but with how it is being used: as a kind of spiritual shortcut, a way to bypass the hard reality of the gospel. The Corinthians have come to believe they’ve already reached spiritual maturity. They see themselves as wise, as self-sufficient, even as kings. They’ve bought into a worldview that imagines the spiritual life as one of personal success, enlightenment, and ease.
Paul holds up a very different image. He writes, ‘We are fools for Christ’s sake but you are wise in Christ. We are weak, but you are strong. You are held in honour, but we in disrepute… We have become like the rubbish of the world, the dregs of all things.’
Paul is not glorifying suffering for its own sake. But he is insisting that the way of Christ is not triumphalist. The way of Christ is shaped by the cross. To follow Christ is to be drawn into the brokenness of the world, not shielded from it. It is to be stirred—not into comfort, but into compassion, into solidarity, into vulnerability.
So again, we ask: What stirs in our heart? And are we letting that stirring draw us deeper into the way of Christ—or are we explaining it away with clever thinking?
The Corinthians weren’t rejecting the gospel outright. They were mixing it uncritically with philosophies that made them feel in control. Perhaps they said things like: ‘Christianity helps me live my best life,’ or ‘Jesus is a spiritual meditator, who mastered life through inner calm and rational strength.’
But Paul says no—the gospel is not about self-help. It’s not about becoming invulnerable or wise in the eyes of the world. It is about becoming like Christ: vulnerable, compassionate, obedient unto death… and alive in resurrection.
There is nothing wrong with philosophy. There’s a danger that, in our pursuit of insight, we tune out the deeper call of the Holy Spirit. When our systems of thought become walls that keep God’s unsettling voice out. When we forget to feel what stirs in us—and to ask whether it might be Christ who is stirring.
So what does this look like for us today? Let me suggest three movements.
Firstly, pay attention to our inner voice. Like Pharaoh, when something unsettles us, do not dismiss it. When you feel disturbed, confused, or awakened—make a pause. Sit with it. Pray with it. Ask: ‘What might God be saying through this?’
This is a practice of discernment, which is different from explanation. Like Joseph, he engaged in spiritual discernment. That means testing, waiting, and listening. When faced with a big decision, or even a recurring dream or longing, bring it before God. Perhaps talk with trusted friends or spiritual companions.
Finally, let the gospel reshape our imagination.
Are we living according to philosophies of control and strength, or are we letting the gospel of the cross shape how we see the world? Paul reminds us that the Christian life is not about success, but about faithfulness. About being willing, like Paul, to be seen as foolish, weak, even as the “dregs of the world,” if that is what love demands.
We are living in a world that is full of voices promising wisdom, stability, and peace. And some of them are genuinely helpful. But none of them can replace the gospel. Because only in the Gospel, we find a God who enters our suffering. A God who dreams a world of abundance, justice, and mercy—and who calls us to dream it with him.