Deacon Jude Tam Tran

THE WISDOM OF AN ANT

“Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over.” — (Luke 6:38)
“Do not look only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.” — (Philippians 2:4)

People stare when they hear it. I don’t blame them. If I were human and someone told me, “I have two stomachs,” I’d probably inch my chair back too. But it’s true. Right here in my abdomen—nice and tidy, thank you very much—I carry two stomachs. One is mine. The other belongs to everyone.

Welcome to ant life.

Let me introduce myself. I’m a worker ant—on some days a builder, on others a forager, sometimes a nurse, occasionally a cleaner. And when times get tough, I become something even more important: a feeder ant. That’s when my second stomach really earns its keep.

You see, one stomach is for my personal use. That’s the “lunch break” stomach. The other?

That’s the community pantry. Whatever extra food I collect goes there, stored carefully, waiting for the moment when another ant taps me on the shoulder—politely, of course—and says, “Brother, I’m hungry.”

And I don’t say, “Sorry, I’m saving this for later.” I don’t say, “I earned it.” I don’t ask if they deserve it. I open up my reserve stomach and share. No drama. No debate. No hesitation.

Humans call that sacrifice. We just call it survival.

When food is plentiful, I’m just another worker ant, hustling along, minding my tasks. But the moment food shortages hit, something remarkable happens. I don’t panic. I don’t hoard. I transform. My role changes instantly. I become a feeder. My second stomach becomes the lifeline of the colony. I feed the young, the weak, the tired. And when the crisis passes and food is abundant again, I quietly shed the title and return to work like nothing special ever happened.

No medals. No applause. Just purpose.

Now forgive me if I sound a little puzzled when I look at humans. You’re brilliant creatures—skyscrapers, smartphones, space travel. Yet hunger still stalks your world. Food rots in one place while children starve in another. Warehouses overflow while stomachs remain empty. You have one stomach, but somehow it feels fuller than mine ever is—because it’s often stuffed with fear.

Fear of not having enough. Fear of losing. Fear that sharing will leave you empty.

But here’s a secret from an ant who literally lives to give: sharing doesn’t make you poorer; it keeps the whole colony alive.

The Bible puts it simply:
“Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over.” (Luke 6:38)

We ants don’t quote scripture, but we live it. What flows out always flows back—in strength, in survival, in balance.

Take our cities, for example. Underground, millions of us live together—sometimes fifty million strong. No traffic jams. No homelessness. No unemployment crisis. No “infrastructure collapse.”

Everyone has a role. Everyone adapts. When conditions change, we don’t complain about the old system—we adjust.

You humans struggle with this. Your cities swell beyond capacity, resources pile up in the wrong places, and frustration spreads like mold. Ants don’t ask, “Why should I change?” We ask, “What does the colony need now?”

That’s another lesson my second stomach taught me: identity is flexible when love is the goal. Today I gather. Tomorrow I feed. The day after, I rebuild. My worth isn’t tied to my title—it’s tied to my usefulness to others.

Humans often cling to roles long after they stop serving anyone. Pride locks you into identities that no longer fit the season. But seasons change. Wise creatures change with them.

The Apostle Paul once wrote:
“Do not look only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.” (Philippians 2:4)

That verse might as well be engraved on my exoskeleton.

Let me be honest: giving from my reserve stomach isn’t always comfortable. Hunger is hunger, even for ants. But I’ve learned something profound—you don’t measure life by what you store, but by what you circulate. Food that never leaves the stomach eventually spoils. Purpose that never leaves the self does the same.

So, here’s my wisdom for you, from one small creature with two stomachs and no bank account:
Maybe you don’t need more storage—you need more sharing.

Maybe the solution to scarcity isn’t accumulation but distribution.

Maybe your second “stomach” isn’t physical at all—it’s your capacity to care.

Imagine if humans lived a little more like ants—not mindless, but mindful; not greedy, but generous; not fearful, but faithful. Imagine if surplus became opportunity instead of security.

Imagine if adaptability replaced entitlement.

We ants aren’t perfect, but we’ve figured this much out: a community that feeds itself never starves.

Now if you’ll excuse me, someone’s tapping my antenna. That’s the signal.

Time to open my second stomach.