Some truths take your breath away—not because they’re complicated, but because they change everything.

Jesus is fully God and fully human.

It’s a mystery, yes, but it’s also the foundation of our faith. When we say that Jesus is fully present in both glory and humility, we’re not just talking about theology—we’re talking about hope. It’s a way of seeing the world—and ourselves—through the lens of God’s love. It shapes how we relate to God, how we understand the cross, and how we walk through both the beauty and the hard edges of life.

Because sometimes, we slip into thinking that Jesus had it easier. That He knew the cheat codes. That He could tap out of the pain if He really wanted to. But that’s not the Jesus we meet in Scripture. The Jesus who weeps at a tomb, who feels hunger, who is moved by compassion, who kneels to wash dusty feet—He’s not distant from the human experience. He stepped right into it. Every moment, every struggle, every joy, every heartbreak—He carried it all with full awareness and full compassion. And at the same time, He carried the fullness of God’s power, presence, and authority.

Jesus gave up His divine privileges and took the humble position of a servant. He appeared in human form, humbled Himself, and became obedient to the point of death. And because of that, God lifted Him up, giving Him the name above all names.

It’s the kind of story that makes you stop.

Because He didn’t have to do any of it. And yet He did.

This is the heart of the Gospel: that God would come near, not just to visit, but to live among us—to share in our suffering, to bear our burdens, to restore what’s been lost.

Colossians 1 puts it this way: Christ is the visible image of the invisible God… He existed before anything else, and He holds everything together.

Jesus didn’t just carry some of God’s nature. He carried all of it. Not a slice. Not a layer. All the fullness of God was pleased to live in Him.

That’s why the cross is so powerful. The One who holds all things together let Himself be broken—because love called for it. Not to prove a point. Not just to inspire. But to save. The Redeemer had to be truly human to suffer with us and for us. He had to be truly God to make that suffering enough.

Everything we long to understand about who God is finds its clearest expression in Him. And when we struggle to trust, or to make sense of the road we’re on, He doesn’t shame us. He meets us there.

He knows what it feels like to be misunderstood.

To feel tired.

To feel the pull of sorrow and the ache of surrender.

But He also knows the joy that comes from resurrection. The beauty of walking with the Father. The strength that flows from the Spirit.

When we understand Jesus as fully human and fully God, we stop trying to shrink Him down to something manageable. He becomes the cornerstone—the weight-bearing center of our faith. And when that truth rises to the surface, it has a way of rearranging our priorities.

Sometimes that reordering feels gentle. Sometimes it feels like a hairpin road—sharp turns, unexpected drops, no guardrails in sight. And we want to understand every twist. We want to see around the next bend. But faith looks like trusting that Jesus is already there.

Present in the curve.

Present in the valley.

Present when the way forward feels uncertain.

So maybe today is a day to breathe. To stop trying to figure everything out. To stop waiting until you have it all together. Maybe it’s just a moment to say, Jesus, I trust You. Be at the centre again.

Because He’s not halfway in.

He’s fully present.

Fully God.

Fully human.

Fully with us.

And that changes everything.