My birthday is imminent, and cake and good cheer will inevitably be in my future, but one thing is poignantly missing: I seem to have forgotten how to dream. I remember looking outside my adolescent window at the sprawling cornfields in front of my house, earnestly hoping that I might catch a glimpse of Hagrid’s motorcycle or Aslan’s tail, trusting that there could be more, much more, to my world. I remember actually believing that I could become a rockstar, or something of that sort. I remember being broke and, at the same time, exceedingly rich.

The world has undoubtedly beat me down. I laugh a lot less than I used to, and my friends are the same. My forehead creases tell me that I am in my head too much, and my grandfather, my dearest friend, died recently. My heart is so very sad, but thankfully, my life is more than death. My wife and I just celebrated our 9th year of marriage. My two children, Flora and Townes, will be welcoming their new little brother home in December. My dog, Luna, is laying at my feet, and I read a good book last week that helped me remember who God is.

In Genesis 28, God places a dream into the mind of his servant, Jacob, and I find myself wishing he might do the same for me, albeit a dream of a different sort. Lord, would you? I long to say these words of Jacob after he wakes from his dream: “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it.” Lord, please surprise me. Make me impractical and unreasonable, a fool only of your doing! This is my wish, and I will be sure to hold it in my mind’s eye as I blow out my birthday candles, because, who knows? It might work.

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At twilight, as the light of Epiphany faded away, I watched my towering grandfather play like a child on the floor, my daughter laughing with joy in her eyes. We all knew he would be stuck on the ground, as his body was old and tired, but it was just so bright and true that no painful reality could obscure it. This was the event that ushered us into the Lenten season, its afterglow persisting into the darkness…or was the darkness a mere shadow cast from my enormous grandfather tangled up with his great-grandchildren on the floor?

My Papa won’t remember this night, but God was at work through his hands and booming laugh. I used to run to him when I was scared and he would hold me. I know he remembers that. I hope I laugh like he does, even when I start to forget everything. I like to think that my Papa is laughing at death, because though it looks like he is losing it all—friends, memories, physical ability—he is actually becoming an empty water basin that, one day, will be filled anew with holy wine. That night, my Maw told stories as she held Townes, her small great-grandson. My wife, Danielle, made Jambalaya, the room overwhelmed by Tony Chachere's Creole Seasoning. I, basking in joy, cut into my piece of King cake to find the strange plastic baby inside. “Lucky me” I thought. I wish it all could have lasted forever, and, you know what? Maybe it will.

Rest in Peace Edward Dorsey Peckham III. I will love you forever. We will be together again. God will put us back together. He holds our memories in his unceasing mind, and our love in his fiery eternal reciprocity. You are lost to me but found in him, and I too will be found one day. I will be scooped up from the far fields and ushered to my truest home that I have always longed for but never known. Please have some Jambalaya waiting for me.

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I have a special box of papers and pictures that I have been collecting for all of my adulthood. In it resides social security cards, old pictures of loved ones, notes from my grandparents, even a 12 year old movie ticket from my first date with my wife. This special box hides on the highest shelf of the most seldomly used closet in our home, often untouched for months on end. After all, I wouldn’t want anything to happen to it, would I?

Where does God place his most treasured possessions? Joseph is placed in potiphar’s house, and later, prison. Moses is delivered into Pharaoh’s home, exile, then a wilderness wandering without end. Samuel is entrusted to God, and yet sleeps under Eli’s roof alongside of his faithless sons, Hophni and Phinehas. David is housed by the wayward king he was to replace. Generations of exiled Israel were raised in the land of their enemies. Jesus, God incarnate, was placed in Roman occupied land. Why does God choose these places? Why would a master gardener plant hydrophytes in a desert?

By all human logic, God is not careful as we understand the word. Surely, we have all felt the tension of the words of Jesus when he says, “Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?”1 If I am of such value, why does God not hide me on the highest shelf of the most seldomly used closet? Why is the sun sweltering and the road arduous? Why does this feel like death? I do not know, but I do know that I trust God with my death. I trust that wherever he places me—in the belly of a fish, the royal palace of a foreign king, or under the hidden veil of an unremarkable life—my life will end in resurrection.

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My four year old daughter, Flora, attends a preschool three days a week, and she loves to tell me all about it. Today, she was explaining “red choices” and “green choices.” I am sure you can intuit what these might be, but like Flora does for me, I am going to tell you anyways. A red choice is when we don’t do the right thing even though we know what the right thing is. A green choice is when we do the right thing, especially when it is hard to do. The story at school today was about Zacchaeus, and so I asked, “did Zacchaeus make a red choice, Flora?” She answered, “yes! he took people’s money, and that is a really red choice.” A few hours later, Flora was in her car seat and said, “dad, even when we make the reddest choices, Jesus still loves us and wants to eat with us just like with Zacchaeus.” If that is all Flora ever learns, it is enough.

I am reminded of John Webster’s book, Holiness, where he writes, “[If] God is Holy in all of his works…[and] God is what God does…[then] God’s holiness is to be defined out of God’s works.”1 Therefore, the holiness of God is not his inability to be near complicated creatures as heard by many in fluorescently lit Sunday School rooms. This cannot be what sets him apart, for how would this be any different from the “No Contact” movement emerging among young adults today?2 No, the holiness of God is defined by his ever intensifying closeness to that which runs utterly counter to himself—his acute intent on dwelling with his creation. What makes the holiness of God so powerful is that it is so foolish and so unconcerned with mistreatment. God’s holiness is not flimsy or delicate like a white tux in a mud pit, nor is it breakable like a glass plate in a kindergarten class, or scarce like an endangered species placed behind multi-layered safety glass. Instead, God’s holiness is like rain that you walk through—lavishly swaddling our whole person, incessantly seeping through the loose seems and seals of our hearts, and to our annoyed delight changing us. You know you have experienced it when your plans have been drenched by the waters of his presence.

I hear my daughter singing the Zacchaeus song I learned in Vacation Bible School as a kid while she is winding down for bed. My life has become much more complicated since then. I did not know how sad the world was and is. I am so hungry for that time of my life. Nevertheless, God draws nearer still. “Zacchaeus, you come down! For I’m going to your house today! For I’m going to your house today!” Maybe God wants to come to my complicated home, to eat with me, and to make me new.

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There are few opportunities to grow up in a story. In my youth, my southern suburban life was subsumed into a wizarding world filled with magic and adventure. As I was graduating college, a new story emerged, one of a world under a world, with the center of events being suburban Indiana rather than a castle in a magical world. This strange story has spanned a period of my life that has included graduating college, getting married, graduating seminary, moving to three different states, becoming a father of two wonderful children, and much else. I am quite sad this story has come to an end, because in many ways it is the story that carried me into adulthood, and has been a constant in my ever changing life. Whether I was learning to pay taxes, suffering through finals weeks, packing up another moving truck, or changing endless diapers, this story of adventure and unexpected heroes has stayed the same. Furthermore, this story has reminded me that my life, though sometimes seemingly small and insignificant, can be a place of wonder and adventure.

Why is it so sad when a movie/television/book series ends? It is all fiction isn’t it? No, it hurts because it has touched on things profoundly real. As a Christian, I think maybe the Sci-Fi adjacent lore of Hawkins Indiana is closer to reality than the worldview of secular rationalism. The day the final episode of Stranger Things aired, my wife and I drove an hour and a half to eat lunch with some close friends. These friends have known us since the beginning, loving us in our awkward undergraduate years and standing beside us, making vows as godparents at our daughter’s baptism. To feast with them on the day that marked the end of this special story felt viscerally fitting. Being with them reminded me that our story has only begun. So much has changed, but so much has stayed the same—our lives have become more serious, but we haven’t. Nothing true in the story of El, Mike, Dustin, Lucas, Max, and Will will pass away, but will be taken up into those hidden corners of our own lives, into the “midwest” of our hearts, the small places of our existence, and in those ordinary places strangely good things can happen.

Duccio di Buoninsegna is one of the central luminaries of Medieval art. His work is the foundation of the great Sienese painting tradition that includes Simone Martini, the Lorenzetti brothers, Giovanni di Paolo, and Stefano di Giovanni, among other greats.1 Duccio’s masterpiece, the Maestà, is a monumental altarpiece composed of over fifty panels made for Siena Cathedral, some of which have been lost since its dismantling in 1771, one of the great tragedies of art history. It is a tragedy because these panels were never intended to be isolated from one another. They are visual notes that sound together to form a single theological chord. When separated—an act that required sawing the altarpiece apart—each panel retains beauty and meaning, but something is lost. At the center of the large front panel sits the incarnate Son, enthroned in glory with the Mother of God, a fitting focus for the the Feast of the Incarnation.

In his Nativity panel, Duccio paints Jesus with his mother in a cave, a dark emptiness in the earth, an unmistakable attestation to the earthiness of the Incarnation.2 Though onlookers crowd the perimeter of the panel, the immediate context of the birth is a void, pregnant with potential, yearning to be shaped into something new—a womb.3 If we compare this Nativity panel to the one depicting the Raising of Lazarus, we encounter a gravesite that closely mirrors the Messiah’s birthplace. This is no accident, but a theological accent, a cry coming from the lowest of places: God in Christ descends to the depths of it all for us. Don’t miss the point: Christ enters into the very place from which he calls Lazarus forth.

We are nearing the Feast of the Incarnation, the beginning of a new story that requires a new song. a song that weaves together notes of wonder and terror, of tears and laughter, of life and death, and transforms them into something profoundly beautiful. Gaze upon the child: so weak, so small, so ordinary. Look closer—squint your eyes—and you will see: here lies the salvation of the world. The brutality of his birth—bloody, unsheltered, uncertain—is woven into the glory of his life. The angels, standing as witnesses to this miraculous birth—a virgin becoming a mother, the Word made flesh—bear witness still today to the same truth: God does the impossible. Look again, watch closely: the child in the manger is, in fact, “the first and the last,” the One who conquers death and reigns forever.

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In my first year of seminary, a professor posed a question to my class: “What is the Gospel?” I wrote my answer, nervously hoping to include it all—Eden, sin, covenant, grace, incarnation, death, resurrection, ascension, indwelling presence, God’s Kingdom, and new creation. I was writing with dry eyes and an anxious heart, because I wanted to get it right—right words, right order, right emphasis. This is a very different disposition than that of the Pevensie children when they hear that “Aslan is on the move.” In hearing this,

“…each one of the children felt something jump in his inside. Edmund felt a sensation of mysterious horror. Peter felt suddenly brave and adventurous. Susan felt as if some delicious smell or some delightful strain of music had just floated by her. And Lucy got the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning and realize that it is the beginning of the holidays or the beginning of summer.”1

It seems that a far more interesting response to my professor’s question is more existential than propositional.

The good news is Jesus Christ. I am so deeply compelled by the life of Jesus, but not just the life one learns about in Sunday school—the one viewed only as a speculator. No, I am compelled by the life of the risen Christ that has enveloped my own life, demanding beauty and truth from ashes. In many ways, my life no longer makes sense apart from his, for even my failures bear his name, because he has made them into something I could have never expected. For my sake he came down from heaven? For the sake of a half-hearted, insecure boy from the least remarkable of places? Surely, he could do better. How foolish! But here lies what has changed me: God’s foolishness saves fools.

Jesus has died in my stead, yet I surely die too, again and again and again, but it is a bright death, one with windows and doorways into unexpected places. This is why I have given my children to him, passing them through the waters of Baptism like Moses on a bed of reeds, as I have seen God transform the depths of my life into mountaintops. Jesus has raised me up, higher still, and I am more sure and more puzzled than I have been, but I trust him. I trust that he is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the word. I trust that he is the way, the truth, and the life worth following. I trust that I need him, and that in my deep need he sees me as beloved. I trust him, but not enough, and he has made a way for me anyways.

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My corner of Protestantism, and I think many others, are, or at least seem to be, in a chronic state of catastrophe. It is interesting, there seems to be, from across the theological spectrum, a book every year that is the book that the Church needs in this time of “crisis.”1 Additionally, there is a whole genre of podcasts and internet personalities that catalogue, dissect, correct, champion, and decry the infamous Evangelical movement. This is not a judgment on this content’s quality or truthfulness, but simply an observation of a far too online 31 year old. It is obvious that Evangelicals, past and present, love to talk about Evangelicalism, and ironically here I am proving the veracity of this statement.

There is undeniably a social order present in the Evangelical and Exvangelical subcultures. In both, status is dependent and decided on the same things—the books you read, the educational institutions you attend, and the willingness to signal blessing towards approved thinkers and curses towards unapproved thinkers. Interestingly, for both, all current Christian ills can be solved in the same way: more knowledge. If only we had better books, seminaries, Bible translations, and were better readers of Holy Scripture and culture, then we would be cured from our sickness! In short, there is an obsession with human action and ability, the Church’s hope resting in the hands of the most gifted theological curators and “rightly” educated.

Wendell Berry rejects the assumption that “knowledge is sufficient,” stating that “the evidence is overwhelming that knowledge does not solve the human problem, it probably doesn’t solve any problem. Indeed, the evidence overwhelmingly suggests, with Genesis, that knowledge is the problem.”2 Books are powerful, but knowledge cannot save us, but there is One who can. I am sad to say, but many corners of Christianity, Evangelical and beyond, are marked by a spirit of careerism, intellectual obsession, and gnostic impulses. But, what if the hope of salvation has nothing to do with our intellect or ability? What if God saves us in spite of ourselves? What if God actually works through imperfect people with flawed messages? Knowledge is not sufficient, but God is.

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These are my notes for a homily I preached at a noonday Good Friday service in Austin, Texas. It is brief, and is an attempt to reflect on Christ’s Kingship in the unlikely context of his death. This was not a strict manuscript, but you can get the picture.

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Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be always acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.

We gather here today on Good Friday, remembering our Savior, Jesus Christ, the one who John the Baptist calls, “the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.” If you were with us last night, you witnessed the stripping of the Altar, which is representative of the humiliation our Savior went through—the stripping of his glory, his garments, and his very life.

I think we can all agree that the Crucifixion narrative does not at first glance appear to be a story about the Lordship of Jesus Christ. Do those with supreme power die? Are those with ultimate rule conquerable?

And yet, we know that Jesus has power, as he tells us as much earlier in John 10:17-18:

“The reason my Father loves me is that I lay down my life—only to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down and authority to take it up again. This command I received from my Father.”

This power is evident, as when Jesus identifies himself to the soldiers and officials of the high Priests in 18:6, saying, “I AM he,” the immediate result is that, “they drew back and fell to the ground.”

Like Moses and the prophets Ezekiel and Daniel, the presence of God's glory demands reverence. It is as if though their hearts were far from God, but their bodies knew their true purpose.

This Jesus, the one who the author of Hebrews tells us, “​​is the radiance of [God’s] glory and the exact representation of His nature…” is the Jesus who is arrested, slapped, beaten, mocked, and nailed to a cross.

And yet, when Jesus is presented to the crowd and they call for his crucifixion on account that he claimed to be God’s Son, it says in 19:8: “When Pilate heard this statement, he was even more afraid”

A governor of the Roman province of Judaea afraid? A direct representative of the Emperor, the most powerful man in the known world, afraid of this bound nobody from Nazareth?

Pilate’s visceral reaction reveals reality, a reality Jesus spells out himself in the following verses (John 19:9-11):

9 and he entered the Praetorium again and said to Jesus, “Where are You from?” But Jesus gave him no answer. 10 So Pilate said to Him, “Are you not speaking to me? Do You not know that I have authority to release You, and I have authority to crucify You?” 11 Jesus answered him, “You would have no authority over Me at all unless it had been given you from above.”

All this to say: Jesus does not passively receive his death, but steps into it, like a Father running into the ocean to save his child who is being overwhelmed by the unruly waves.

Jesus is a willing sacrifice, sent by the Father, offering to those dying the gift of life. But there is something else taking place in the death of our Savior—Jesus is assuming a role more fully that has always been his. As Jesus is stretched onto the hard wood of the cross, he is in fact being placed on his throne.

Pilate says it himself:

19 Pilate also wrote an inscription and put it on the cross. It read, “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.” 20 Many of the Jews read this inscription, for the place where Jesus was crucified was near the city, and it was written in Aramaic, in Latin, and in Greek. 21 So the chief priests of the Jews said to Pilate, “Do not write, ‘The King of the Jews,’ but rather, ‘This man said, I am King of the Jews.’” 22 Pilate answered, “What I have written I have written.”

So, what do we make of the irreverent crowd throwing a purple robe around Jesus’ neck, a twisted crown of thorns on his head, and the words “Hail, King of the Jews” over his person?

I think the answer lies in a heavenly vision St. John is caught up in nearing the end of his life.

In his Gospel, St. John reveals the brutal final moments of the “Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.” In his Apocalypse. St. John reveals the cosmic worship of the “Lamb standing as if it has been slaughtered.”

Moreover, in his Gospel, St. John observes soldiers mockingly presenting Jesus in a crown of thorns and a purple robe, shouting, “Hail, king of the Jews!” Correspondingly, yet conversely, in his Apocalypse, St. John observes a heavenly Elder announcing that the, “the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David,” who in fact is the slaughtered Lamb, “has conquered.”

These are not two separate episodes, but a singular event, each perspective disclosing and interpreting the other. Therefore, when the soldiers dress Jesus in a purple robe and crown of thorns, announcing Him as King, they are in fact telling the truth, and unbeknownst to them, active participants in a cosmic liturgy that will never end.1

Possibly the most known story from the whole book of Genesis is the story of Abraham and Isaac in Genesis 22 that we just heard read. In that scene, Isaac is representative of more than just Abraham’s beloved son, he is his future, his only hope in bringing to fruition God’s promises. The scandal of this story is that while Abraham sees Isaac as the hope of the world, it is actually that ram in the bramble bush covered in thorns that prefigures the hope of the world, the fulfillment of the promise, and the context of redemption. It is the weak scapegoat that Jesus points to and says “I have become like that for you.”

It is the Ram that points to Christ. He will bless the earth through ways that do not compute with the logic of this world because “the foolishness of God is wiser than men” (1 Corinthians 1:25).

Remember what the Lord said to St. Paul: “My power is made perfect in weakness”

Let us not be confused, on this day we mourn the death of our Savior. We cry out for mercy for the brokenness of the world that his death reveals. BUT we do not despair, for another way has been paved, a new King has assumed his throne, and a different order has come into being. Jesus is King precisely because he is crucified.

We believe this in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

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Preface: Often times, I write to figure out what I believe. I wrote what is below 3 years ago prior to teaching through my first round of Catechesis for those taking steps towards Confirmation. I have written much more on the subject, arranging and rearranging my thoughts in different seasons, but I have found that this long paragraph is something I always come back to. I hope it might also be helpful for you.

In the mystery of the Triune God, He established the “Sacraments of the Gospel,” which are Holy Baptism and Holy Eucharist. These two rites serve as divine vehicles that break into our ordinary reality, pulling us further upward and inward into the extraordinary reality of God. The ACNA Catechism defines a sacrament as, “an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace. God gives us the sign as a means by which we receive that grace and as a tangible assurance that we do in fact receive it.”1 The physicality of Holy Baptism and Holy Eucharist is a grace to Christians, for it assures us that we are receiving what God intends in Holy Baptism and Holy Eucharist, which is God’s very life. Regeneration and when it corresponds to our temporal existential experience is hidden in God, and yet baptism concretely and objectively serves as an event where the candidate is assuredly “hidden with Christ in God” (Colossians 3:3). Moreover, spiritual intimacy with God can potentially come from numerous channels, and yet, God has established the table as an objective meeting place where believers truly participate in the body and blood of Jesus, and the many truly become One. Our Lord has not made it a mystery as to how one may commune with him, but instead, has candidly made himself available, even scandalously so, through household items and natural substances. In other words, God has placed a tacky neon sign on the baptismal font and altar that reads, “dwell with me.”

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Prayer is often understood as an act that enkindles what will be, rather than one that opens up and discloses that which already is. Growing up, I felt shame when I opened my eyes during prayer, as if the substance and telos of my supplications could never truly reside in my material home. Lately, I have noticed my daughter, Flora, looking out the window as we drive, singing her heart out to the songs of movies that have captured her imagination, almost in an uninterruptible daze. She sings and thus sees, even in urban centers and suburban corner-stores, the possibility of magic, talking trees, fiery dragons, and adventure. Flora weaves in and out of our mundane life and the grand stories of adventure we read and watch with such ease, as if the line between them is thinner than one would think at first glance. I do not often look at the world with this sense of possibility. Instead, I see things as decided, often hopelessly expressing, “it is was it is.” Flora, on the other hand, seems to believe Jesus when he says, “the Kingdom of God is in your midst.”1 Maybe Flora’s songs are prayers for me, for our world, that we may see what truly is. Maybe the world is more alive than I once thought it was. Maybe I need to start praying with my eyes open again.

To receive judgment is simply to exist in the world. Human identity, worth, and personal fate are declared daily by astrological signs, polarizing news outlets, and possibly your parents. Uber drivers are judged through tips or the lack thereof, while films are judged through Letterboxd stars. Additionally, humans are judged through mommy bloggers, loan lenders, admissions committees, and wellness influencers. Have you ever delivered a baby? No matter what your method or philosophy, you will, sadly, be judged for that too. In short, to exist is to live through a resounding chorus of voices wailing a word from on high: “you are doing it wrong!” To be judged is to be a given a verdict of who you are, an efficacious pronouncement containing a living word with wide ranging implications. Judgments are certain, often said with an exclamation point at the end—“guilty!” All of humanity looks up—to parents, institutions, and the heavens—waiting to be told who they are, what they are worth, and if, after all their striving, they will be accepted for who they are and who they are not.

In John 5, Jesus heals a man of an ailment that has resulted in oppressive immobility stretching 38 years. For this man, any semblance of hope for salvation is located in the pool of Bethesda, which to his dismay, is always reached first by another in need, thus eradicating any hope of his situation changing.1 It is in this place of despair and personal poverty that Jesus sees him and enters into his orbit, and yet the man does not immediately realize that the Living Water has come to him, offering a healing that stretches far beyond the finite categories he has for himself. In other words, the man’s judgment about what he needed most, salvation itself, was amiss.

After this event, Jewish authorities see this man supernaturally walking with his bed, his former home in hand, and yet they do not see a miracle, but instead, an infraction. Their judgment of this divine work is that it is one of lawlessness. In essence, they look upon Monet’s Haystacks and see war. They look upon the birth of a child and see a funeral. They are sure of their judgment, but it is misguided, for the man they rebuke is a walking icon of the substance of their religious zeal and piety that they have long forgotten—a long waiting can do this, and there is mercy for them too, for God waits for us.

When the Jewish authorities hear the spoken words of Jesus in John 5, the Word of God, the One whom St. John says is “full of grace and truth,” they hear blasphemy.2 The immediate result of Jesus bringing about new life through healing this ailed man of 38 years is that the Jewish authorities “[sought] all the more to kill him.”3 It is in this place of antagonism and misguided judgement that Jesus engages in a long excursus concerning his relationship with the Father, and thus, his authority. The rationale of Jesus’s message is as follows:

I. The Father loves the son, so shows him all he does (5:20a).

II. The Son sees what the Father is doing, and does the same (5:19).

III. The Father gives life, the Son sees this, so the Son also gives life (5:21).

IV. All honor the Father, and the Father desires all to honor the Son (5:23a)

V. Thus, the Father has given all judgment into the hands of the Son (5:22)

VI. Therefore, if you don’t honor the Son, you do not honor the Father (5:23b)

This message of Jesus conveys the unity of the Father and the Son, making clear that the Son reveals the Father’s will. Therefore, Jesus, the crucified Savior, the one who cries out concerning those crucifying him, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing,” is in fact the judge of the world, and there can be no other.4 The judgment of the world is held in his scar-borne hands of Jesus Christ, a clear heavenly Word to the world of resounding mercy. The Word of God from on high has emphatically spoken down low to us, saying, “Stand up! Pick up your mat and walk.”5 In other words, “be free!”

In the Annunciation, Mary, the mother of Jesus, receives a word about herself from on high, being told that she is “favored,” and assured that, “the Lord is with her.”6 Mary receives a word about herself, that in turn, is shared with all of humanity. Mary gives birth to Jesus, who’s name fittingly means “YHWH saves.” Jesus is the definitive Word of God, effectually communicating to the world God’s decision about humanity. God’s heavenly message to Mary is birthed into the world by Mary, and this enfleshed Word accomplishes what he announces.

We do not have the authority to judge ourselves, nor does the world. But, even if the world’s judgments of you are true, there is a louder Word given from on high. Even if you are, in fact, a liar, a glutton, a betrayer, or a cheat, the living Word of God has been spoken, his decision made. Even if you have failed yourself and all whom you hold most dear, not even that defeat can withstand the declarative and resolute “Yes!” of Jesus Christ. How can this be so? Well, just as the Angel tells Mary concerning her cousin, Elizabeth, who became pregnant with a son at an old age: “nothing will be impossible with God.”7 Those who believe in the impossible made possible in Jesus will pass from death to life, they will walk at the bottom of the Red Sea, through death itself, with the God of life by their side, and they will live.

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This is a letter I have written to my son, Townes, who will be baptized  this Sunday. He can't read it, but I will read it to him, and hope he reads it himself one day. I have edited a few things out that are more personal, but the letter is mostly intact. I am posting because conversations concerning the Sacrament of Baptism are often discussed in a way that is deeply sterile and forensic, utterly un-lived. This is not an attempt to write a systematic treatment of Baptism, nor is this a Thomistic apology on infant Baptism, but rather, a mere attempt to plumb the depths of this aquatic gift in the context of its application in time in space to an individual whom I love.

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Townes Simeon Peter, 

Today, you will be baptized into Christ in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. I will be there with Mom and Flora, but others will be there too: godparents, family, friends, angels, archangels, and all the company of heaven! We will stand together, lifting you up and over into the scar-borne hands of our Lord, Jesus Christ. What He will do with you we cannot fully know, but we trust Him, and He is good.

Baptism is an embodied promise, a heavenly declaration, where God pledges His love and life to those destined to fail Him, yes that includes you and me. Through this divine act made with human hands, God writes His name upon our hearts. Thus, in your life, whether you are in the highest heavens or the depths of the sea, Jesus will be there, because you are His. When your heart is full of faith or empty of hope, God’s Word will not waiver. As you grow up, you will not likely remember your Baptism, but God will, and He will never forget you.

Townes, as I grow older, I will grow into a child again—unable to remember with precision or walk without assistance—but there Jesus will meet me, like He does you today, with open arms and love without end. Today you will begin a journey with a promised destination. I do not know the terrain you will face, but I do know the one who will guide you, and as long as you are with Him you will never be lost. Stick close.

I love you, buddy. No matter what, no exceptions.

Dad. 

I have been writing a piece on Jonah for quite sometime, changing my mind each day as to what I so confidently put forward in print the day before. I wanted to share a section of Jacques Ellul’s book, The Judgment of Jonah, that captured my imagination for the biblical story many years ago. Ellul notes that book of Jonah ends with a question from God to Jonah, one that is painfully unanswered and unresolved:

“You were upset about this little plant, something for which you did not work, nor did you do anything to make it grow. It grew up overnight and died the next day. Should I not be more concerned about Nineveh, this enormous city? There are more than 120,000 people in it who do not know right from wrong, as well as many animals” (Jonah 4:10-11: NET).

Concerning this, Ellul writes this in the concluding pages of his theological commentary on this famous prophetic book:

“Jonah is a man who does not obey God's will. Nor does Nineveh. Jonah is plunged into condemnation and hell; Nineveh is confronted with imminent condemnation. Jonah repents, and Nineveh fasts. Jonah is saved by grace, Nineveh is pardoned by grace. One can say in truth that what happened to Jonah in the first part of the story is reproduced exactly in what happens to Nineveh in the second part. We also remember that it was through Jonah as intermediary that Nineveh went through this experience. Jonah, a foreigner in Nineveh, coming to it from the elect people, went through the same experiences as Nineveh. He trod the path on which Nineveh would follow him when Jonah had brought it God's word. What happened to him happens to this great city. There is in fact a fellowship of destiny between them. In the long run what took place in Jonah's life takes place in that of every man. The salvation granted to Jonah from the depths of hell is what God has decided for all. Thus Jonah in his adventure, in his very life, proclaims the decision of salvation which is for all...This is why the Book of Jonah is left unfinished. It ends with the last question which God puts to Jonah. Jonah does not answer. Naturally it is disappointing for us not to know whether Jonah finally understood. Did he reply in humility and adoration, or did he turn his back a last time? In reality Jonah could not reply, for this question is the question of the life and death of the world and not that of the salvation of Jonah. He could not answer this question, and the question is thus put to each of us, no doubt, but the real reason is that it awaited its answer from another. The Book of Jonah has no conclusion, and the final question of the book has no answer, except from the one who realizes the fullness of the mercy of God and who factually and not just mythically accomplishes the salvation of the world [emphasis added].”1

Jonah is a book of prophecy, but the prophetic word is a fleshly oracle, an icon, pointing to the final work of God in Christ. Maybe one day I will finish my piece mentioned earlier, but for now I am happy to just read again, and be in awe anew, of this devotional passage.

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Weakness in the hands of the God who creates, the only true God, is the power of God. In St. John’s Gospel and Apocalypse, he observes one event in two juxtaposing forms, revealing the scandal of God’s power, namely that “power is made perfect in weakness.”1 In his Gospel, St. John reveals the brutal final moments of the “Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.”2 In his Apocalypse. St. John reveals the cosmic worship of the “Lamb standing as if it has been slaughtered.”3 Moreover, in his Gospel, St. John observes soldiers mockingly presenting Jesus in a crown of thorns and a purple robe, shouting, “Hail, king of the Jews!”4 Correspondingly, yet conversely, in his Apocalypse, St. John observes a heavenly Elder announcing that the, “the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David,” who in fact is the slaughtered Lamb, “has conquered.”5 These are not two separate episodes, but a singular event, each perspective disclosing and interpreting the other. Therefore, when the soldiers dress Jesus in a purple robe and crown of thorns, announcing Him as King, they are in fact telling the truth, and unbeknownst to them, active participants in a cosmic liturgy that will never end.

If we know this to be true, why do Christian Churches value action-verb-filled resumes and post-nominal letters for their leadership more than humility and servanthood? Why do I want to chronically credential myself, and stabilize my future through financial and social means rather than becoming weak for the sake of the others? Why do we live our whole lives walking towards death with fear, doing all we can to reverse the inevitable? Why do we hide our sin when we are promised forgiveness without end? Marva Dawn is right when she says, “even as Christ accomplished atonement for us by suffering and death, so the Lord accomplishes witness to the world through our weakness. In fact, God has more need of our weakness than of our strength.”6 Surely, one of the roles of the church is to celebrate and champion the gifts and practices of Her members that the world does not reward nor value, with humility and weakness being at the center.

To lust after strength is to lust after death, but to become weak, even unto death, is to know the God who raised Jesus from the dead. Weakness is not limited to merely the realm of physicality, for when we fail and must confess our sins, it truly feels as though we are dying. In these moments, fear grips our soul and despair spreads through our bodies, our hearts condemning us, screaming, “the truth will ruin you.” But, it will not, for God has said so, and His word is true! It is, in fact, the truth that will set you free. Even if you descend into the depths of the earth, Jesus has gone further. Even if your legs fail and your aching back bent by your cross gives way, Jesus can assist you, for this path is an old friend to Him. St. John tells us that, “if we confess our sins, he who is faithful and just will forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”7 It is simple, tell the truth. Yes, it is worse than you’d ever imagined, and when it leaves your mouth it will feel as though you are passing through a cold death, but in this very moment you will be met with the warm embrace of the God who is love.

The very place of our personal poverty becomes the location where we encounter the hidden treasure lying in fields we have frequented throughout our lives. Fields that were walked through too quickly to ever discover the object of our heart’s desire was there all along. It is this place that is our death, but in the hands of the God of life, that is good news. In Jesus' parable in Luke 15, the love of the Prodigal’s Father did not change, but the Prodigal did, and the love that always was took pig slop and replaced it with a fattened calf feast. Brothers and sisters, die so that the Father who raised Jesus from the dead may also raise you up!

“Love is as strong as death” asserts Song of Songs, which is simply to say through poetic flourish that love is very strong, even unstoppably so. Love captures participants and makes them lovers, bending wills and disregarding personal timing and reason. Love is strong, and yet, when lovers breathe their final breath, does death prove to be more powerful?

St. John reveals that “God is love,” this name best comprehended in the Son of God on a cross for the unworthy. Raw, unfiltered, unqualified Mercy. What is the love we experience then? To be sure, it is that which belongs to its namesake, a whiff of something Greater, a seedling of Someone Truer. 

The cross did not extinguish the Love of God, thus not an ounce of our love will be taken away by death. Our love will not and cannot die. Grief proves this, for like a ghost, love lingers beyond the grave. 

Romantic excitement through the brushing of hands, late night conversations with friends that make your heart so full it might burst, even the forgotten memories of the elderly that live on through momentary consciousness and recollection. That love will not die!

Love is not reliant on memory, nor intellect for that matter. It lives on whether our bodies and minds fail us or not. Love is that intangible something that we are caught up into. We cannot control love, for love is not a substance to be seized but the un-seizable God Himself.

Love will not die because it does not belong to us, thus nothing, not even death, can extinguish it.

Love has a name: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Escapism” is often used as a sort of bad word in modern Christian circles, and sometimes for good reason.1 With that, I want to go on record saying that I sometimes want to escape. I did the Seminary thing, learned a lot, and yes, I understand that what God has given the world in the person and work of Jesus Christ is fundamentally bigger than a pain-avoidant getaway car or helicopter extraction. But, work with me here, sometimes things are just hard. Yes, you just thought of world wars, climate change related disasters, and other large scale catastrophes, and you are absolutely right, but what I am referring to is more in line with dead end jobs, seasons of friendlessness, and personal failure. Those who don’t resonate with this sentiment have already stopped reading before this sentence, so if you stuck around I trust you know what I mean. In short, sometimes life is utterly disappointing, and we want so badly for our lives to be something more than they are. Maybe you’re reading this after the late shift, a hard and hidden day with kids, your sacrifice and pain cloaked in obscurity, or a day of being unseen by colleagues and supervisors. Before I say anything else, let me just say this: God sees you.

In sixth grade, my family moved to a small town 30 miles northeast of Austin, and it was hard. I struggled to make friends those first few years, and I was often sad. During this time, as all pre-teens in 2005 were, I was reading through the Harry Potter series as the books were coming out. I remember wishing so deeply that Hagrid would kick down my door and tell me that I was a citizen of a remarkable magical world, a place with friends, adventure, and purpose. I wanted something more than my life. Growing up, I always felt a deep desire to be exceptional, but never quite was—I played sports but was second string, I made music but was average, I went to Graduate school but never was a stand out. I wanted to be someone other than myself. I wanted to live a life that was not my own.

Maybe this same desire is what motivated St. Peter to declare to Jesus, “even if all fall away on account of you, I never will...even if I have to die with you, I will never disown you.”2 I believe St. Peter’s vows were genuine, he wanted them to be true, he wanted to be exceptional, a friend until the very end. Surely, we can all resonate. But, in the end, his denial was threefold, and in his disappointment, “[St. Peter] went outside and wept bitterly.”3 If only tears could mend the broken.

By no accident, Jesus’s reinstitution of Peter is threefold, and yet his commissioning of Peter is stifling:

“Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.” (He said this to indicate the kind of death by which he would glorify God,” After this he said to him, “Follow (ἀκολουθέω) me.”.”4

Peter’s response to this commissioning is utterly human. In seeing “the disciple whom Jesus loved following (ἀκολουθέω) them,” this disciple being St. John, he asks Jesus, “Lord, what about him?” Jesus’ response is, “what is that to you? Follow (ἀκολουθέω) me!” Here, Jesus’ words are not one of shaming judgment, but of life, because following John and his fate will not lead to life! Peter’s imminent death and John’s potential old age are not the deciding factors of abundant life being possessed and experienced. Correspondingly, maybe dream jobs, 401k’s, and relational success aren’t either. There is only One who can lead us through the waters of death unscathed. You see, our success of making it to the other side through the waters of disappointment, sadness, and death is not dependent on our speed, health, astuteness, or assets, but the One who walks ahead of us, Jesus Christ, the One who was dead and is alive again.

We will all live different lives: some of us will suffer, and others of us will prosper. Some of us will find love, and others of us will mourn love itself. Some of us will buy homes, and others of us will just get by. Some of us will work our dream jobs, and others of us will work in obscurity, always wishing for more. Even still, our lives are inextricably bound to Christ’s life, for this is why St. Paul can say with confidence that, “[Christ] is our life.”5 This is the only life that matters. This is the only life that will live into God’s future. This is the only life that death cannot lay hold of. This is the life held in the Father’s hands, the safest place in the cosmos. This is the Gospel for the disappointed: Jesus desires and invites your life and all of its disappointments to be taken up into His own life, and if even death is transformed in His body, then all your disappointments will one day be transfigured. Come quickly, Lord, Jesus.

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Musical Motifs and Holy Scripture

Music is a complex miracle, a commonplace mystery. All composition is an arrangement of various sound waves generated from vibrations begotten by vocal cords, crafted wood, and bent brass. On the other hand, music, while utterly complicated, is remarkably graspable—Melodies fill the mouths of children before words, simple tunes name emotions prior to self-diagnosis, and language barriers are temporarily suspended as music functions as a shared tongue to strangers. In the same way, “[Holy] Scripture is music,” for it is a well that can be enjoyed but never exhausted, a song that holy fools can belt, but music theorists are unable to comprehensively define.1 Surely, boundless tomes can be written about Holy Scripture’s contents, and simultaneously a simple song will do: “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.”2 When listening closely, however, Holy Scripture’s contents have a wide variety of timbre, texture, and tone, containing within the composition reoccurring motifs that appear and reappear, build and expand, and even unify the Divine Opus. Two thematic motifs that are particularly pronounced in St. John’s Gospel are water and temple. By reading St. John’s Gospel through these motifs, readers begin to comprehend how baptisms, wedding miracles, well encounters, and redemptive breakfasts are parts of a singular hymn.

The Fleshly Dwelling Place of God

In the Old Testament, the Temple functioned as the dwelling place of God, His decided throne, and yet “the space where YHWH sat enthroned “between the cherubim” was significantly marked by an absence, an empty space.”3 That is to say, the Temple could hold the fullness of the living God as effectively as a garment pocket can hold a herd of elephants. Surely, it was a reliable meeting place, but how could the elements of the earth ever wholly support their Creator’s dwelling? It is significant, then, that in Jesus, “the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily.”4 The Temple functioned as an icon of what was coming into being more and more with each generation of Israel, namely that God was drawing near, increasing in intensity and intimacy, not through stone and timber, but through flesh and blood. With that, the Temple is by no means merely an elaborate symbol, no, it is the chosen vehicle of the God “[who] has life in himself” to share His very life with those hellbent on dying.5 The Divine Instruction for the Tabernacle in Exodus 25-26 is the second appearance of God functioning as a master architect in Holy Scripture, and the purposes of the former helps us better understand the purposes of the latter. In Genesis 6, God instructs Noah to construct an ark to His stipulations in a way that parallels that of the Temple. Therefore, just as the ark is a means of preserving God’s people from the chaotic waters of death, so is the Temple God’s means for not only living alongside of His people, but preserving His people by His own life by way of a new ark.

St. John’s Gospel does not begin with a genealogy, prophecy, or even narrative proper, but rather with a “Paschal Hymn” that weaves together heaven and earth in a pleasing polyphony.6 The resounding center of St. John’s Paschal hymn is the scandal that, “the Word became flesh and dwelt (σκηνόω) among us”7 Herein lies the inception of St. John’s Temple motif, for the verb σκηνόω does not indicate a general sense of dwelling, but a narrow one defined by the verb’s root, σκηνή, which means “tent” and is the noun used in the Septuagint to refer to the Tabernacle, the place where God promises His people that, “[He] will dwell among them.”8 Thus, it should not surprise readers that St. John’s Gospel is, to a large extent, organized by Temple Feasts, with the primary settings being Judea and Jerusalem, where the Temple resides, in contrast to the Synoptics primary setting, which is Galilee.9 Moreover, St. John’s Gospel fronts what is commonly referred to as the “Temple Cleansing,” rather than placing it at the end of Jesus’s earthly ministry as the Synoptics do. Jesus’s actions in the Temple, where he drives out money changers and sacrificial animals, are made sense of when he replies to pleas for an authoritative sign by saying, “destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up,” and St. John adds his commentary that, “[Jesus] was speaking about the temple of his body.”10 In other words, Jesus is centering Himself both as “the living temple of God’s presence” and “the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.”11 The fleshly body of Jesus is the new Temple, a gathering place for the sacred and cursed, where heaven and earth are held together and unencumbered life is offered by the one who “[became] a curse for us.”12

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A Saving Flood

In Holy Scripture, water is by no means a static inanimate geographical feature, but a dynamic force with the power to give life or take it. To be more precise, water itself is chaos clothed in creation, but in the hands of the God who creates, the only true God, it is an instrument of life. Genesis 1 defines the uncreated state as “a wild wasteland" and “a chaotic sea,” to borrow language from Andy Patton’s excellent article, The Primeval Sea—God Rules the Chaotic Waters.13 Yet, even still, even here, the Breath of God hovers over the chaotic void and ordered life is brought into being. Should we be surprised? This is the business of God—hope in dark places, laughter in mourning, wine in water basins, life out of death. So then, there is no better stage for God’s power than the deep waters of chaos, the deep down places, a space occupied by King David, exiled Israel, and all of creation.14

We should not be surprised then that the Hebrew imagination is marked by a series of aquatic beginnings: the flood cleansing and preservation of Noah, the setting of most patriarch’s betrothals, the Exodus crossing of the Red Sea, the Promised Land crossing of the Jordan River, and the re-commissioning of a fish-swallowed prophet. This beginning is good, but always costly. It is significant that God saves Israel out of slavery by bringing them “in the depths (תָּוֶךְ),” while also overthrowing Egypt by bringing them “in the depths (תָּוֶךְ).”15 That is to say, the Exodus is a parabolic story of a journey through the chaotic waters by two parties, one with the living God by their side and one without.16 In sum, God saves Israel by very literally guiding them through the bottom of the sea, through death itself. Sound familiar? Ezekiel 47 prophetically speaks of a new eschatological beginning, where an ever deepening river flows from the Temple, creating life in the form of fish, unfailing fruit, and healing leaves wherever it goes. One could think of this prophetic scene as depicting a “saving flood and a cleansing washing” to borrow Martin Luther’s Baptismal language, for the river flowing from the Temple is expansive and powerful, flowing from the very Sanctuary of YHWH, and infused with God’s glory, creating threefold life out of divinely-tamed water.17

In St. John’s Gospel, water is implicitly implied in the opening words, “in the beginning,” but first explicitly referred to in connection to St. John the Baptist’s ministry of “[making] straight the way for the Lord.”18 In other words, "John's water baptism announces the arrival of something new into the world," which is visibly confirmed through the Spirit’s heavenly decent upon the baptized Messiah.19 What has arrived is further defined by the use of water in the sequence of aquatic narratives that follow. In John 2, water enclosed by jars used for the Jewish rite of purification is transformed into fine wine, resulting in a feast being extended by abundance rather than ended due to scarcity. In John 3, during a conversation with Nicodemus, water is identified in partnership with the Spirit to be the means by which individuals are “born from above,” thus enabling them to see and enter into the Kingdom of God.

Starting in John 4, water is not merely a vehicle of miraculous activity, but something intimately bound to the redemptive work of the Messiah Himself, the Word in whom “[there is] life…the life [that is] the light of mankind”20 Here, Jesus encounters a socially isolated Samaritan woman at Jacob’s Well in a clear betrothal scene, offering the woman “living water,” which results in her leaving her jar (ὑδρίαν) to serve as the first witness of the Messiah to the Samaritans.21 In John 5, the Pool of Bethesda serves as the background to the healing of a paralytic, one who looked to the Pool as a mystical means of healing, but in encountering Jesus, the true Water of Life, is healed. In John 6, Jesus, as the one on whom the Spirit descended and remained, walks on water, hearkening back to the imagery of Genesis 1 where the Spirit hovered over the chaotic waters of uncreation and creates. Lastly, in John 7, Jesus travels to Jerusalem for the Feast of Tabernacles, which was the “preeminent feast of the Temple” during the Second Temple period, one that took on an “eschatological dimension” that looked ahead to the ingathering of all nations spoken about in Zechariah 14.22 Here, Jesus, on the final day of the Feast, which was marked by a water pouring ritual from the Temple Altar, states, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me…let the one who believes in me drink…[and] out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.”23 Here, the fleshly dwelling place of God, Jesus Christ, announces the arrival of the heavenly waters of life that are crashing into a dying world, the first fruits flowing from His very side.24

The Marriage Breakfast of the Lamb

Many readers of St. John’s Gospel have been puzzled by its first and last chapters, some even questioning the originality and authorship of these pericopes. For skeptics, they find it strange that someone would cram a theological hymn into the introduction of a “biography” or tack on an additional resurrection appearance and authorial statement after the narrative proper has been adequately wrapped up. Though undeniably strange, St. John’s introductory and concluding chapters bear remarkable symmetry, forming an inclusio, which bear the mark of the Johannine literary tradition.25 The structure is as follows: (1) Old Testament Allusion with Christological fulfillment (1:1-18; 21:1-6), (2) Baptism (1:19-34; 21:7-14), and (3) instatement or reinstatement of disciples (1:35-51; 21:15-24). This inclusio serves as two sides of a singular lens, that if looked through, reveals the fullness of what St. John’s aquatic narratives have been revealing in part all along.

The introductory hymn in St. John’s prologue implies water imagery, as noted above, thus illuminating its contents, for Jesus is not merely “the light [that] shines in the darkness” in St. John’s Gospel, but the creative agent who acts in the words, “let there be light” in Genesis. Additionally, this creation theme appears elsewhere in St. John’s Gospel, for Jesus breathes on the disciples to receive the Holy Spirit in John 20:22, a clear reference to God’s creation of Adam in Genesis 2:7, showing that the “redemption [of Jesus Christ] is designed to produce a new humanity.”26 Moreover, though less plain, Tertulllian draws a correlation between Adam’s slumber in Genesis 2:21, where the life of Eve is created from Adam’s side to Jesus’s “mortal slumber,” from which the Church is created, signified by the water and blood that spill from the side of Jesus in John 19:34.27 One might even make a connection between the Garden of Eden and the resurrected Christ being mistaken for a “gardener” by Mary Magdalene.28 Therefore, it is not far fetched to understand the waters that begin chapter 21 in line with the “chaotic sea” of Genesis 1, for despite the Disciples best efforts, the waters, even after a night’s work, yield no hint of life. This is a scene of human effort being exhausted, and the deep waters functioning as a symbol of chaos, a space inhospitable to life itself. Therefore, John 1 and John 21 begin in the same place: in the beginning.

Just as God created out of the chaotic waters in Genesis 1, so does He create a people for Himself through the Red Sea and Jordan River Crossings of the Old Testament, and thus, no surprise, in these later days, He creates a people for Himself through the waters of Baptism. The second section of John introduced both John the Baptist’s ministry and Jesus’s earthly ministry through this particular aquatic ritual. While the second section of John 1 is explicitly about baptism, the second section of John 21 is implicitly about baptism, revealed through the lens of the formed inclusio noted previously.

In John 21, St. Peter is one of the failing fisherman of the opening scene, and in a place of scarcity, sitting among the deep waters, Jesus appears to them, though veiled, and by simply speaking a word the waters come alive, resulting in the catch needing to be dragged to the shore, and Jesus’s identity being revealed. As a result, Peter jumps into the water, but before doing so “put[s] on his outer garment.” When he arrives at shore, a charcoal fire (ἀνθρακιά) awaits him, a word that only appears twice in the entire New Testament, the first time being the setting of Peter’s first denial of Jesus in John 18. Peter is standing as an Adamic figure, acting out what Jesus has done for humankind. He places an outer garment on his body just as Adam had placed fig leaves onto Himself in shame in Genesis 3:7.29 He then jumps into the chaotic waters of judgment just as the prophet Jonah had done before him, but this water is different, because of who it is flowing from. Ezekiel 47, as noted earlier, paints an eschatological picture of a river brimming with life flowing from the Temple, and what do we see in John 21? Jesus, the fleshly dwelling place of God standing before waters once dead and now alive. Therefore, it is no wonder that when Peter emerges, he comes up out of the waters to the very smell of his shame and judgment being used as a vehicle of a holy meal prepared by the unbloodied scarred hands of the risen Christ.

The final section of both chapters 1 and 21 are calling passages, where sinners are commissioned to follow Jesus, St. Peter playing a starring role in each, and though he is told in chapter 21 that his end will be a death very much like Jesus’s own, this is but another stage for God to reveal His power again. Besides, the Beloved disciple, St. John, might live a long life and even, in his Apocalypse, see the New Heavens and New Earth, but Peter, maybe unbeknownst to him, got to plunge into “the river of the water of life,” imbued by the transformative power of its source with the first course of an eschatological meal waiting for him ashore.30

A word can be spoken, seen, experienced, or felt. One can say “I love you” to another who needs to hear it, but sometimes knowing eye-contact and a nod will do. Other times, though, it is necessary for love to encompass your whole person through embrace, whether that be by interlocking arms during a pub chant or by tangling one’s body with another in a bear hug. Words can even be eternalized, written on paper, outliving the author but never the love expressed in the note. Maybe this is why, on the night that Jesus was betrayed, He washed his friends’ dirty feet, because how else could he explain to them the mystery that was to happen? This does not seem so far fetched, for Jesus Himself is the walking embodied Word of God. Brad East says it best when he states that, “Jesus is divine speech perfectly spoken in human flesh and blood, complete from beginning to end, definitively communicating what the one true and ever-living God is and wills.”1 There have been others who have received and spoken God’s words, but none that are themselves the Word. Jesus, the Word of God, is “the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being,” thus it is no surprise that Thomas F. Torrance can say with confidence that, “there is…no God behind the back of Jesus Christ.”2 So, what is God saying to the world? Look nowhere else than His enfleshed Word.

Holy Scripture is an anthology of promises compiled by scarred hands, a disorienting cacophony of “i do’s” and “I will’s” that miraculously find resolution in a Virtuoso who loudly sings His promises over the rest, mending all that is out of step and key. Promises in Holy Scripture playfully come in the form of words, prophetic oracles, rainbows, circumcised Israelites, royal thrones, big fish, and through it all God communicates the same message: “I will do the impossible thing for you.” In John 20, readers encounter a promise made not by words or oath, but by the unbloodied wounds of the risen Christ. Here, Jesus appears to a doubting Saint Thomas, undoubtedly cynical, demanding the impossible for the authentication of Jesus’ resurrection: “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”3 Jesus instructs Thomas to touch His wounds, and in doing so all of Thomas’ pain—all the suffering, doubt, loss, anger, abandonment, despair—are pressed into the transfigured wounds of Jesus, and he believes the impossible to be true of Jesus, and so also for himself. The eternally scarred body of Jesus is a promise to humankind that there is no depth of human despair, suffering, or pain that is outside of God’s redemptive power. This, of course, is the Gospel, if in fact Robert Jenson is right when he states that, “the gospel…is a promise that our life will be fulfilled by Christ.”4 In Christ, what is empty will be filled up, what is broken will be mended, and what is dead will be made alive.

To understand the scope of this embodied promise, one must note that the initial audience for this Gospel Word are the disciples, those who knew Jesus and yet chose to walk away from Him. Those, who like the Prodigal Son, thought it wiser, safer, and best for them to be as far away from the Source of their life as possible. In Margaret Wise Brown’s beloved children’s book, The Runaway Bunny, a little bunny announces to his mother that he intends to runaway, yet this announcement is met by a series of promises of presence made by the little bunny’s mother:

Little Bunny: “If you run after me…I will become a rock on the mountaintop, high above you.”

Mother Bunny: “If you become a rock on the mountain high above me…I will become a mountain climber, and I will climb to where you are.”

Little Bunny: “If you become a mountain climber…I will be a crocus in a hidden garden.”

Mother Bunny: “If you become a Crocus in a hidden garden…I will be a gardener. And I will find you.”5

The wounded body of Jesus is a promise of presence to all determined to escape it. In short, The scarred body of Jesus is a promise that He will “[love us] to the end,” just as He did His disciples.6 Surely, this aligns with the character of God that David had in mind when he wrote, “if I make my bed in the Sheol, you are there.”7 David said this without ever proclaiming the creedal conviction that, “[Jesus] descended into hell,” to the far country, to the edge of worldly and other-worldly places where humans could run from His presence. Jesus traveled to those depths to offer His love—to desolate lands, to darkened corners of memory, to broken hearts, even to death. Where could you go where the love of God will cease? Look at His hands and find your answer.

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In Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, at the book’s end, Harry loses his beloved Godfather, Sirius Black, when he is cursed and pushed into and through “the veil,” a thin space that acts as a mystical barrier between the realm of the living and the realm of death. The scenes that follow detail Harry fervently and anxiously scrambling around Hogwarts Castle, seeking a means to encounter and even commune with his Godfather again. He seeks the magic and wisdom of a two-way mirror and school ghost, and comes away from both with a poignant awareness of the great chasm that now separates him from his Godfather. An important exchange happens just after these events between Harry and his friend, Luna Lovegood:

“Anyway...why aren't you at the feast?" Harry shrugged. “Just didn't feel like it.” “No,” said Luna, observing him with those oddly misty, protuberant eyes. “I don't suppose you do. That man the Death Eaters killed was your godfather, wasn't he? Ginny told me.” Harry nodded curtly, but found that for some reason he did not mind Luna talking about Sirius. He had just remembered that she too could see thestrals. “Have you...” he began. “I mean, who...has anyone you've ever known died?” “Yes,” said Luna simply, “my mother. She was quite an extraordinary witch, you know, but she did like to experiment and one of her spells went rather badly wrong one day. I was nine.” “I'm sorry,” Harry mumbled. "Yes, it was rather horrible," said Luna conversationally. “I still feel very sad about it sometimes. But I've still got Dad. And anyway, it's not as though I'll never see Mum again, is it?” “Er -- isn't it?” said Harry uncertainly. She shook her head in disbelief. “Oh, come on. You heard them, just behind the veil, didn't you?””1

The Veil in Harry Potter is a doorway, where the distance between the realms of life and death is almost imperceptible, close enough to hear the faint whispers of those standing on the other side of this unique barrier. Though close, the space between the two is impenetrable, for to inhabit one space is to forfeit inhabiting the other. For those that have lost a loved one, this is the pain of living—so close, yet so far. All who have felt this pain long for one who can bring together the great chasm between these realms.

Isaiah 25 prophetically speaks of an eschatological feast consisting of two components: humankind on a mountain swallowing up God’s holy food, and God on a mountain swallowing up the death that enshrouds humankind. This is caviar and manure, fine wine and bleach, sourdough bread and pig slop—this is life and death. Surely, this peculiar pairing is apparent in the life-giving Eucharistic event, for when Christians partake in the elements they “proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.”2 At the altar, Christians pull up a seat to a family meal, participating in a timeless banquet stretching from Calvary to the marriage supper of the Lamb, for “liturgy is always in the present tense.”3 The nature of this eschatological meal is hinted at in Matthew’s Gospel, for when Jesus dies, a mighty earthquake cracks open stone graves, and when He raises, many holy people are raised with him.4 Thus, it should be no surprise that early Christians celebrated the Eucharist at tombs, for to them, “the communion of saints was a living presence in every celebration of the eucharist.”5 Just as Jesus Christ is the new temple, who brings together Heaven And Earth in himself, in his death, he becomes a holy thin space between the realms of death and life. In Jesus Christ, death is made into a doorway, an opened veil between the land of the living and the land of the dead, and His Holy Meal, which is Himself, is a burial balm unto eternity.

In 2014, prolific director, Steve McQueen, spoke with Kirsty Young when appearing on the radio program broadcast, Desert Island Discs. Here, when speaking about two of his award winning historical dramas, Hunger and 12 Years a Slave, he described the experience as feeling like the cast and crew were, “dancing with ghosts,” which Young further defines as a kind of “visceral magic.”6 Though McQueen is using this to describe the poignant immediacy of the past when capturing true stories in the present, his imaginative expression is helpful when paired with the imagination of C.S. Lewis. In his posthumously published, Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer, Lewis famously talks about liturgy as dance, but he neglects to mention who Christians are dancing with.7 When Christians encounter the Eucharistic Table, they encounter Jesus Christ, who is the thin space between the realm of the living and the realm of the dead, the one who describes Himself as, “the Living One; I was dead, and now look, I am alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades.”8 Maybe this is why the author of Hebrews is able to so confidently assert that Christians are “surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses.”9 The Book of Common Prayer helpfully reminds worshippers of this reality by prefacing the Sanctus in the Eucharistic Prayer, with “therefore, we praise you, joining our voices with Angels and Archangels and with all the company of heaven.”10 Just as David leaped and danced as the Ark of the Covenant entered the City of David, so do Christians of all ages as the presence of the Lord is offered anew in the Eucharistic event, for without a doubt Christians are dancing with ghosts.

A final image that captures this mysterious Eucharistic reality of the living feasting on the Bread of Heaven in the company of the saints from every age is depicted in Pixar’s 2017 animated film, Coco. This film follows the events of a boy named Miguel, who crosses between the realms of life and death on the Day of the Dead, inadvertently knitting back together his family through an adventure worth watching. Traditionally, home altars are made for loved ones that have died during Day of the Dead festivities, and in Coco, only the people who are remembered are able to cross the bridge from the realm of the dead to the realm of the living. The movie ends one year after Miguel’s journey with a complete home altar made for his loved ones, including ones long forgotten, and the result is a party: feasting ensues, ghosts dance among the living, and the realms of life and death are fused together, if only for a moment.

This is the reality of the Eucharist. We partake in the meal that transcends finite time and place as we are caught up in the eternal company of heaven. The empty tomb of Jesus Christ has become an altar, the very source of a family banquet that will never end—angels and archangels rejoicing, brothers and sister laughing, grandparents and godparents dancing, and forgotten saints only remembered by their faithful Brother, Jesus Christ, singing forever and ever.