Under the weight of reality, humans believe in miracles, although “believe” is an understatement. We “believe” in miracles the same way we “believe” in our own existence, our own two hands.

Sometimes it’s just latent — it needs to wake up.

If miracles don’t exist, then what are we even doing here, on this grassy, wet, populated cannonball spiraling through the Milky Way?

Revelation isn’t about wisdom; it’s about awakening.

Miracles are undeniable. Perhaps they are not scientifically provable, although this assumption, as you’ll see, is itself wobbly.

We don’t know how miracles happen. There’s no script or receipt. And this often, by nature, defies scientific examination. Over the past 2,000 years, one thing has proven true: All miracles come from Jesus of Nazareth, the Word.

In the digital network era of information, Christ has been gliding through the dreams of millions of nonbelievers.

Across the Middle East, where hostility toward Christianity runs deep, people have been dreaming of Jesus. Usually he introduces them to someone, a stranger, who miraculously appears in their life the next day.

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Warning shot

When Abraham and Sarah entered Gerar, Abraham, afraid for his life, told everyone that Sarah was his sister.

King Abimelech, unaware of the truth, took Sarah into his household. That night, God appeared to him in a dream with a chilling message: "You are as good as dead because of the woman you have taken; she is a married woman" (Genesis 20:3).

Abimelech pleaded his innocence; he hadn’t known that she was married. God acknowledged this, but warned him: Return Sarah, or suffer the consequences.

This dream was more than a warning. It was a rare moment when a non-Israelite received a direct message from God.

Dreams, in the biblical world, are deeper than unconscious thoughts — they are places where heaven and earth meet.

Synchronicity

A few years ago, I dove into the ideas of Carl Jung, the Swiss psychologist who ushered in a new form of Christianity.

Jung saw dreams as a source of prophecy. He called them “paranormal phenomena” — things science can’t explain. If miracles had a theory, this might be it: events bound by meaning, not cause.

I like to think it’s playful. That the Creator, my Creator, leaves clues of His love.

One of his big ideas is synchronicity, the unexplainable occurrence of meaningful coincidences. Think “synchronized,” but the coordination is divine.

Mark Twain was born in 1835, a year in which Halley’s Comet passed Earth. He predicted he’d die when it returned. In 1910, the comet appeared again — the day after his death.

A song comes on just as you’re thinking of someone who died, like a message sent through static. Numbers, phrases, chance encounters. The book that finds you, the right person at the right time. Fate colliding in ways too romantic to ignore.

Synchronicity proves that everything is connected, often in beautiful ways. The whole experience is so well crafted that it feels literary, like a novel tangled with theme, foreshadowing, dramatic irony — all the devices of storytelling.

And dreams — they are agents of synchronicity.

Even before reading Jung, I doubted the idea of accidents and coincidences. But Jung gave me the science — the science of the unprovable. Suddenly, I was drowning in meaningful connections and vivid dreams. A bombardment of symbols. The outer world mysteriously syncs with the most private thing of all: my thoughts, the endless dialogue between a soul and itself.

Solomon’s dream of wisdom

Early in his reign, Solomon went to Gibeon to offer sacrifices. That night, God appeared to him in a dream and said: "Ask for whatever you want me to give you" (1 Kings 3:5).

It was a test. Solomon could have asked for power, wealth, or victory. Instead, he asked for wisdom — to rule well, judge rightly, and discern good from evil.

God was pleased. He gave Solomon wisdom beyond measure — and threw in riches and honor.

Unlike other biblical dreams, which often needed interpretation, this one was clear. No riddles. Just a conversation, a moment of divine intimacy. The dreams of Jesus have this same quality, as if he reveals himself in the sharpest, most cinematic way possible, like a preview for the final apocalypse.

The Greek apokalypsis doesn’t mean destruction. It means revelation. A dream given form, a vision laid bare. It is not about God’s wrath but His love. The Second Coming will not be a final explosion of divine fury — it will be love breaking through.

The apocalypse has already happened: at Golgotha, on a hill shaped like a skull. Year 33. The cross was the unveiling — the great revelation that shattered history into before and after.

Simone Weil and the dream of presence

Simone Weil is one of my favorite writers. Weil was a French-Jewish philosopher who, after having a mystical experience at the foot of a crucifix, became deeply influenced by Christian mysticism and theology.

Weil believed that we experience God’s love indirectly through the people and objects of the world.

She believed in a God who withdraws — not to abandon, but to make space for freedom.

His absence, she wrote, is what allows the world to breathe. Yet, in that very withdrawal, He leaves traces — signs scattered like constellations for the soul to follow.

Weil called this the “implicit love of God.”

At the heart of her thought is de-creation, a concept as startling as it is profound. Unlike destruction, which bulldozes and erases, de-creation is an undoing that reveals.

It is a return, not to nothingness but to origin, a movement backward to the moment before something was formed, when it existed in pure potential. In de-creation, Weil saw the soul’s highest calling: to be unmade and remade, to let go of the self until what remains is only presence itself — the light of love stripped of ego.

It is a dream of reversal, an unbuilding that does not diminish but restores. The world, Weil suggests, is not a prison to escape but a teacher guiding us toward that dream of return — toward the place where God waits, hidden and everywhere.

“Love is not consolation,” she wrote. “It is light.”

Hidden since the foundation of the world

Jacob, exhausted and alone, stopped for the night in a barren place. He laid his head on a rock and fell asleep. Then he dreamed a ladder, stretching from earth to heaven. Angels ascended and descended.

At the top, the Lord spoke: "Your descendants will be like the dust of the earth. ... I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go" (Genesis 28:14-15).

Jacob gasped awake. The ground beneath him suddenly felt sacred.

"Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it. ... This is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven" (Genesis 28:16).

This dream was a turning point. Jacob may have been a fugitive, but he was not abandoned. The ladder — a bridge between heaven and earth — marked the moment he began to understand that God’s presence was not confined to altars or temples. It reaches everywhere, like the wind, unseen yet undeniable.

God's presence in creation is a mysterious paradox. His revelation is also His concealment, so that He reveals Himself in the world but remains beyond our full comprehension.

Revelation isn’t about wisdom; it’s about awakening. It’s about looking up at the sky: “When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him?” (Psalm 8:3-4).

Joseph, the dreamer

Joseph’s dreams shaped his life. As a boy, he saw visions of sheaves of wheat bowing before him; of the sun, moon, and stars bending in reverence. When he shared them with his brothers, their jealousy burned. Soon, they betrayed him, selling him into slavery in a foreign land.

But Joseph’s gift did not fade.

In an Egyptian prison, he interpreted the dreams of Pharaoh’s cupbearer and baker — one would be restored, the other executed. When Pharaoh himself was troubled by a dream of seven fat cows devoured by seven gaunt ones, no one could decipher its meaning except Joseph.

The dream was a warning: Seven years of plenty would be followed by seven years of famine. Pharaoh, recognizing Joseph’s divine wisdom, elevated him to power.

The dream that almost stopped the crucifixion

In the middle of history’s most pivotal trial, when Jesus of Nazareth stood before Pontius Pilate, another figure — almost forgotten — received a warning from beyond.

Pilate’s wife, unnamed in Scripture but later called Claudia Procula in tradition, had a dream — and it shook her.

As Pilate sat in judgment, trying to navigate the political and religious storm around Jesus, a message reached him from his wife: "Don’t have anything to do with that innocent man, for I have suffered a great deal today in a dream because of him" (Matthew 27:19).

A dream. Not a whisper from the high priests, not a threat from Rome, but a dream.

We don’t know what she saw — only that it tormented her. Perhaps she witnessed the brutal execution before it happened, or saw Jesus in divine glory, or simply felt an overwhelming dread. Whatever it was, she suffered. And she warned her husband to walk away.

Dream logic

Beyond the tiny raindrops of grace that rescue each of us throughout our lives, there’s proof everywhere, like the enormity of our universe, coded into every mystery of life.

Childbirth is a miracle. From the moment of conception and the clustering of cells to the first flutter of a heartbeat, life itself is a divine act. Parenthood is a miracle. Children are perhaps the most miraculous of it all.

The other day my 4-year-old told me, “You’re my king.” It knocked me sideways, the way I felt so honored that my child, my miracle, would see me, in all my flaws, as her king.

And then I crunched sideways the other way when I realized that God may feel similarly. So I’ll say it because people hear it even when they’re dreaming: Jesus is King.