This reflection was written by Jeroham Meléndez, who works in communications at Dio, for this week’s Wingèd Ox, a weekly news digest distributed to the college community. You will find reflections from previous weeks here.

In 2024, a word that frequently surfaced in different spaces at the college was creativity. For some, creativity flows naturally; for others, it requires deliberate effort. But in either case, it reflects a deep human capacity to bring something new into existence—to shape ideas, music, art, or even ministry in ways that touch lives.

In the early 2010s, a young Swedish man named Tim Bergling—better known as Avicii—rose to fame in the world of electronic dance music.

Despite not mastering any conventional musical instrument, his ability to craft melodies and produce chart-topping hits fueled a prolific career, making him one of the most influential DJs and producers of his generation. His career was marked by innovation and an almost instinctive creativity, blending genres in ways that redefined modern EDM. But at just 28 years old, his life ended far too soon —tragically by suicide.

I recently watched a documentary about his life, filled with early footage of his rise to fame, his struggles, and the relentless demands of an industry that often consumes its brightest talents. It was hard to watch—partly because of the nostalgia of hearing the very songs I had once enjoyed, but mainly because behind the powerful beats and euphoric melodies, I saw not a superstar DJ, but a deeply vulnerable, desperately unhappy young man. As the film unfolded, I felt a deep sadness and an aching hope that he had, at some point, felt the love of God—that he had known Jesus was with him, even in his pain.

Avicii explored spirituality, including Buddhism, but perhaps he never found answers to the deeper questions that haunted him. Maybe his struggles were rooted in a congenital psychological imbalance. Or maybe, like so many others, he was searching for something—something beyond fame, beyond success, beyond even himself.

In ministry, you may or may not cross paths with world-famous DJs or artists suffering under the weight of expectation and anxiety, but you will encounter people in deep need. According to Statistics Canada, between 2022 and 2023, at least five million Canadians aged 15 and older met the diagnostic criteria for a mood, anxiety, or substance use disorder. And beyond clinical diagnoses, many others wrestle with a deep spiritual emptiness—a quiet, unspoken cry for hope, purpose, and connection.

Since moving to Montreal, I have often been reminded of the province’s Révolution tranquille (Quiet Revolution) and its strong emphasis on secularism. And yet, every day, I see more opportunities for the church—not fewer. I see a culture yearning for connection, for belonging, for something greater than itself.

This makes me pray for the church—not only for those within it but for the ways we step beyond its walls to meet those who are searching. The people longing for connection, meaning, and hope are not always sitting in pews; they are in cafés, concert halls, and city streets, listening for a melody that makes sense of their lives.

Yet, it’s clear that the church model we’ve relied on for decades isn’t reaching those searching for meaning—people aren’t coming to Christ through our traditions alone.

Jesus said, “Whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life” (John 4:14). The church is called to be that wellspring—to bring living water to those who are thirsty, to hear the silent beat of longing in the world around us, and to respond with courage, love, and, above all, creativity. May we, as a church, not only wait for people to come but go out and meet them where they are, offering a melody of hope that is yet unfinished.