2 Corinthians 12:2

The apostle Paul is writing to a church in the city of Corinth that he founded but which had been troubled by false teachers and internal conflict. In this chapter, Paul is reluctantly defending his credibility as an apostle — something the false teachers had attacked. He describes an extraordinary experience from fourteen years earlier: being "caught up to the third heaven." In ancient Jewish thought, the heavens were understood in layers — the sky, the realm of stars, and a highest third heaven where the fullness of God's presence dwells. Paul speaks of this in the third person ("I know a man") as if to distance himself from any pride in the experience. Even more remarkably, he admits he doesn't know whether this was physical or purely spiritual — and he is at peace with that uncertainty. "God knows" is his final word on it.

God, there are things about you and about my own experience that I will never fully understand this side of eternity. Paul said "God knows" and let that be enough. Teach me that kind of peace — not the peace of not caring, but the peace of trusting you with what I cannot figure out. Amen.

Here is one of the most extraordinary experiences any human being has reportedly had — and Paul gives it two sentences. He doesn't build a conference around it. He doesn't title a book after it. He mentions it almost against his will, buries it in the third person, and immediately hedges: "whether in the body or out of the body, I do not know." He sat on this story for fourteen years before it surfaced in a letter. In an era when spiritual credentials were being traded like currency, Paul had the ultimate trump card and refused to play it. There's something quietly important here for anyone who has had a profound encounter with God — or who has never had one and carries a low-grade anxiety that they're spiritually behind. Paul's point isn't "look what happened to me." His point, in the very next verses, is that he'd rather talk about his weaknesses. The heavenly vision gets two sentences; his suffering and inadequacy get paragraphs. That inversion is strange and worth sitting with for a while. Maybe the healthiest thing to do with your most profound spiritual moments — or your most painful lack of them — is the same response Paul lands on: "God knows." Not a shrug, but a release. Some things don't need to be fully understood to be fully trusted.