On a recent walk to the grocery store, I saw a Jewish man pause to look around. As he turned, I noticed something small but strik - ing: beneath his yarmulke was a bald spot. And for some reason, my mind immediately flashed to an image of a Christian monk—the kind with a shaved circle at the top of the head, known as a tonsure. I’ve never connected the two before. They come from very differ - ent traditions. And yet, both the yarmulke and the tonsure rest on the crown of the head, in the space closest to Heaven. Could it be that these symbols—one covering, one uncovering—speak to the same truth? The Jewish yarmulke (or kippah) is worn as a sign of rever - ence—a reminder that God is above us. It’s not mandated by Scripture, but its use became tradition as a visible acknowledg - ment of humility, particularly in prayer or study. Covering the head was a way to honor the sacred, to recognize one's position under divine authority. The Christian tonsure, particularly among monks in earlier cen - turies, was quite the opposite in form. A ring of hair was left while the crown was shaved. This exposed head symbolized submission, the renunciation of worldly pride, and complete dedi - cation to God’s service. It marked the man as set apart—no longer of the world, but belonging wholly to Christ. Some monastic writings even suggest the shaved head helped “clear a path” for the Holy Spirit, opening the mind to receive di - vine instruction. Whether literal or symbolic, it reflects a truth still relevant today: true communion with God begins where pride ends. So here we have two practices—distinct in origin, perhaps never meant to cross paths—yet both resting at the highest point of the body. Both pointing upward. Both whispering humility. It’s a quiet connection, but one worth noticing. Maybe that’s why the sight of the yarmulke over the bald spot stirred something in me. In a world where outward faith is often mocked or minimized, these ancient symbols remain small but defiant declarations of allegiance to something greater. They ask nothing of others, but everything of the one who wears them. And maybe that’s what we’re missing today—not the symbols themselves, but the spirit behind them. Reverence has become rare. We bow more often to algorithms than to God, and outward signs of devotion have given way to curated performance. But in a moment as simple as seeing a bald spot beneath a yarmulke, I was reminded that faith once meant bearing a visible mark, even if small, even if quiet. And those marks—worn in humility, not pride—were never about being seen by the world. They were about being known by Heaven.