Category: Stories

In the beginning.

Before the ticking of the first clock—before time itself—there was only The Echo. It did not bounce off walls, for there were no walls. It did not travel through the air, for there was no atmosphere. It emanated from within the heart of the silence, loaded with an astonishingly beautiful potential.

Let there be light. 

In that very moment—at the utterance of those first divine words—the silence split apart. Not a violent collision of matter or the big bang of a cosmic explosion, but by a breath, a spoken intent.

The Echo took form. It pushed out into the absolute nothingness of the dark, an energised narrative that shattered the void. 

Where the Word traveled, reality took form. 

The Word spoke stars—and trillions of burning spheres ignited in the deep, cold expanse. 

The Word spoke waters and land—and oceans rushed into existence, cradling a brand-new earth. 

Every blade of grass, every mighty tree, every living creature that roams the face of the earth, each a syllable perfectly spoken.

The Word spoke humanity—and the image of the Creative One Himself was brought to life from the very dust of the ground, man and woman.  

It was as if the universe was a grand poem, and the Word was the voice that read it aloud.

Centuries rolled by, the poem grew complex. The voices of humanity became loud, a discordant static of grief, ambition, and broken promises. 

They forgot the language of the garden. They forgot how to hear the Word in the rustle of the leaves or the turning of the tides, or the soft whisper of the wind. 

The world grew cold, cloaked in a different kind of darkness—not the empty dark before creation—but a heavy, blind darkness of the soul.

The Word watched. 

The same Word that had stretched the canvas of the cosmos, now looked upon a dimming planet. But The Echo was not lost. 

In a quiet stable, in a forgotten town called Bethlehem, the  ancient narrative was re-born. 

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

The infinite, boundless Voice that had spoken galaxies into existence gathered itself into a tiny, fragile space. The Eternal Echo that spoke all that exists into reality was now heard in the soft, fragile cry of a newborn baby.

He was in the world, and though the world was made through Him, the world did not recognise Him.

As He grew, He walked the dusty roads of the very earth His own speech had shaped. When He spoke, the old poetry of Genesis rippled through the air. To the stormy sea, He whispered, “Peace, be still,” and the waters remembered the voice that had separated them from the dry land on the third day. 

To a man born blind, He spat on the ground and made mud, applying it to his eyes, a deliberate Echo of the day He had formed humanity from the dust of the ground.

And to his friend—recently deceased and buried in a tomb of stone—he spoke words of life, “Lazarus, come out!“

He was the Light shinning in the darkness, and the darkness could not overcome Him.

And then, on a Friday afternoon, stretched out on a beam of wood cut from a tree His own voice had sustained, the Word prepared to speak His final line.

The sun stood still, the earth shook, and a thick and suffocating darkness hovered over the threshold of all creation, mimicking the void before that first day long ago.

He breathed out a single, definitive phrase, “It is finished.”

Then the Word fell silent. 

He was laid in a tomb, carved into the stone of the earth He had made. For three days, the cosmos held its breath. The poem seemed to have ended in a tragedy.

But a Word spoken by the Divine cannot return void.

On the dawn of the first day of the week, an new Echo was heard through the garden. The stone rolled away, and with the quiet power of a new creation bursting forth, the Word stepped out into the morning sun. As it was in the beginning, the darkness was banished by the light, and the Word of Life breathed once again on all creation. 

The Echo is alive!

And if you dare to listen—if you have ears to hear— you will hear it calling out new names, speaking new life into existence. 

The Story is not ended—it is still being told. 

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Image credit: Echoes of Grace, Matt Fricker

All eyes were fixed on the hole in the side of the hill. Some in the crowd that had gathered were murmuring and whispering. Most stood silent, the words of Jesus still echoing in their minds. 

“LAZARUS, COME OUT!”

The air was thick with anticipation. 

And then he appeared, still wrapped in his burial shroud. Jesus instructed some of those standing near by, “Unwrap him, and let him go!”

Many of the people who had come out with Mary and Martha to mourn with them, when they saw Lazarus alive, believed who Jesus was. But some were troubled, and went to the Pharisees to tell them what Jesus had done. 

Imagine, if you can, spending your whole life putting your faith and hope in the teachings and traditions of your trusted elders and leaders, only to witness for yourself something so profound that it rocks your whole belief system. Would you be suspicious? Confused and thrown off balance? Would you even be able to accept what you had just seen with your own eyes? You might even feel angry. 

Who is this man? And how is he able to do that which only God can do? This is a very important question to ponder—perhaps the most important question of all. 

In that moment—when the realisation of what you have experienced hits you—I wonder if you might allow the gift that is the reframing of your reality to reform and re-story your understanding of who Jesus really is. 

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Prayer: Father, in the middle of all that’s going on in my life — the grief, the busyness, the fear, the questions — I choose to run to you today. I know you have something to show me and that there’s more of you to know. Expand the borders of my heart and fill in the black and white spaces of my theology with the beautiful colours of new life.

Prayer excerpt from the Lectio 365 app, courtesy of 24-7 Prayer.

Image credit: Courtesy of Lumo Project Films

Story from Matthew 15 and Mark 7

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The number of people gathering outside the modest villa on the coast was growing by the minute. 

People from all over Tyre and Sidon had heard that a Jewish Rabbi who had healing powers had snuck into town. In the midst of all the noise and commotion, a Greek woman was making her way through the crowd. Suddenly, there he was. 

She threw herself onto the floor at his feet, not daring to look at his face. For a moment time stood still. She could see his sandals and his feet, and the edge of his robe was just centimetres from her trembling fingers. The room fell silent as the dust settled. This was her moment, the one she had been waiting for since she had first heard about him. 

The words barley passed over her lips, “Please Lord, my daughter has an unclean spirit in her. Will you come and drive it away. I beg of you.” 

Still looking at the healers feet, she waited to hear his reply. He didn’t answer her. The disciples urged Jesus to send her away.

Finally he spoke, “I must feed the children first-my own family, the Jews. It wouldn’t be right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.”

His words were sharp and to the point and it was clear to everyone in the room that she had made a big mistake coming here. 

But the woman slowly got to her knees and looked at the rabbi. His face was kind and when he looked at her, she felt as though he could see into her soul. She could see that he was different. There was something about this man that caused her heart to fill with hope. But he had denied her request. 

And so, mustering all her courage, she replied, “Yes, Lord, but even the dogs under the table get to  eat the children’s crumbs.”

You could almost hear the people in the room draw a collective breath and for a moment, the woman wondered what he might say next. She didn’t have to wait long.

A slight smile spread across the rabbi’s face as he looked down at the woman kneeling before him, “You have spoken wisely. Return to your home. Your daughter is free of the spirit that troubled her.”

The woman returned to her home to find her daughter laying on her bed, totally well and happy. Jesus had restored her body, mind and spirit and she was whole once again. The woman had her little girl back. 

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Prayer
Father, thank you that your mercy is so vast, and your power so great, that even the smallest crumb of your grace is more than enough to heal our brokenness, cast out our fears, and renew our lives.

A story based on my reflection of events that take place between Mark chapters 4 and 5

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The lightning cast long shadows on the back of the small cave and the howling wind drove big drops of rain onto the weathered face of the man huddled inside. Storms like this were not uncommon over the lake, growing quickly in the heat of the late afternoon, but this storm was particularly nasty. 

As the man looked out over the lake from the shelter of his cave, he could see the dim light of a boat lantern as it rose and fell on the pitching waves. He wondered to himself who it might be. Fisherman probably, caught out by the rapidly developing storm that had swept over them. As the man drifted in and out of sleep, his eyes struggled to focus on the distant light. His mind was shattered by the constant torment in his head and his body ached. 

Suddenly, he was jolted awake. There was a disturbance in his spirit and his eyes came quickly into focus. It looked like a wave… except this wave was spreading out from the centre of the lake in every direction… and in the middle was the small boat. The lantern was still, the water calm, and before he could work out what was going on, the storm had all but dissipated. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, but then he felt the tension in his body rise, a sensation he had felt many times before. 

Legion wasn’t happy. 

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Image credit: Ai-generated image by Matt Fricker

This is a story about a man who knew what isolation was all about. Forced to quarantine so he didn’t contaminate others, he lived his life on the edges of society, cut off from his family and his community. He wandered the dusty roads between the towns and villages, spending his days scrounging for food and water, begging on the mercy of others, and longing for a miracle. As each day passed, he slipped further and further into despair and  hopelessness.

The story begins in Capernaum, a small fishing village located on the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee. An amazing thing had just taken place in the home of Simon and Andrew, who were brothers. Simon’s mother-in-law had been laid up in bed with a fever, and when Jesus heard about it, he went to her bedside, took her by the hand, and healed her. News spread quickly, because by night fall, the whole town has gathered outside the door. 

That night, Jesus healed many who were sick, and he drove out many demons.

Early the next morning, Jesus went out to find a quiet place to pray. It wasn’t long before Simon and some others went looking for him. In fact, there was a large crowd of people also looking for him, so Jesus said to Simon and those with him, “Let’s go to all the neighbouring villages, so that I might preach there also. After all, this is why I came. This is what I was sent for.” 

So that’s exactly what they did. Jesus went from village to village throughout the region of Galilee, preaching in the synagogues, healing the sick, and driving out demons. 

Then one day, they had an unexpected encounter. Up ahead on the road, a lonely figure appeared. At first it was difficult to tell who it was through the haze, but as they drew closer, they could see that it was a man. He was dressed in ragged clothes and had scruffy, unkempt hair. Was he a traveller, a beggar, a bandit? Was he alone? 

The disciples were cautious—hesitant to get too close—but the man kept coming towards them. Their worst fears were realised when they saw his skin. He was a leper!

He was supposed to keep a distance of fifty paces and call out to warn any travellers on the road that he was unclean, but he did none of that. Instead, he came right up to Jesus and fell to his knees, uttering the words, “Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.”

For a moment, the disciples were not sure how their master was going to react, but Jesus was deeply stirred by what he saw, and what he did next caught all of them by surprise. 

He reached out and placed his hand on the man before him. “I am willing. Be clean!”

At that very instant, the skin disease that had plagued the man vanished. He was healed. 

Jesus was quick to dismiss the man with these instructions;

“Don’t tell anyone about this. Instead, go to the priest and let him examine you. Take along the offering required in the law of Moses for those who have been healed of leprosy. This will be a public testimony that you have been cleansed.”

The man, unable to contain his joy at being made well, told anyone who would listen what had happened to him. The news spread throughout the region like wild fire and it became harder and harder for Jesus to enter into any village, on account of the vast number of people who were now seeking him out.  

Story compiled from Matthew 8:2-4, Mark 1:40-45, Luke 5:12-16

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A couple of observations:

Let’s look more closely at what is going on in this interaction with the leper. 

Matt 8:2—“Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.”

In the Bible, leprosy was a broad term that covered many types of skin disease, and even though we don’t know exactly what form of skin disease this man had, we do know what the consequences of having it were. According to the Law given to Moses, anyone with a skin disease had to isolate themselves from the wider community. 

Forced to live in special camps beyond the city walls, lepers were not allowed to come within 2 metres of another person, and if the wind was blowing, they were not allowed within 50 paces of another person. They had to warn anyone who might approach them by calling out ‘unclean’ and they had to cover their mouth. 

If you read through Numbers Ch5 and Leviticus Ch’s 13-14, you will begin to get a picture of what life for someone with leprosy might be like; If you discovered a skin infection, you had to isolate outside the city walls for seven days. If you were lucky, your condition would clear up within seven days and you could present yourself to the priest, offer the prescribed sacrifice, and be declared clean. You would be good to go.

But if your condition continued, or worsened, you faced the possibility of a lifetime of isolation—and not just social isolation. 

As someone declared unclean, you were not allowed to enter the temple or synagogue. You were effectively cut off from any aspect of worship. 

So it’s interesting to take note of what the leper is actually asking Jesus to do for him, “Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.” 

To be made clean means more than just being healed. In fact, the word translated as clean has a four fold meaning—a meaning not lost on Matthew’s audience— and Matthew uses it intentionally in this way in this passage. 

As well as physical healing, it has the idea of ceremonial purification, the return to fellowship with people, and the freedom to worship in the temple. In other words, wholeness. 

But what catches my attention in this story is how the leper asks… “Lord, if you are willing…”

Don’t make the mistake of thinking this is a passive, half-hearted request. “Hey Jesus, Iv’e got this little problem I’m hoping you can help me with. But if not, that’s OK, I’ll just continue to deal with it on my own. Sorry to bother you.”

Matthew says he knelt before Jesus and asked—Mark says he knelt before Jesus and begged—Luke says he fell facedown and begged.  

Either way, the intention is clear. Here is a man who knows he can’t help himself. In fact, he knows that in all likelihood, no-one can help him.  So why has he come to Jesus? 

What has he seen? What has he heard? Who does he think this Jesus is?

That question is exactly why Matthew places this story where it is, directly after the Sermon on the Mount. Matthew wants to show his audience—and us—that the Kingdom of God is not only near, it has arrived. 

Through Jesus, the wholeness of Heaven is touching the brokenness of Earth.

Whether by faith or sheer desperation, or both, this man with a serious skin disease has come to Jesus because he believes, with all his heart, that Jesus can restore him to wholeness.  

“Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.” 

To Matthew’s Jewish readers, this is a powerful statement of intent—a reminder of who Jesus really is—because in their experience, tradition, and belief, only God can heal someone of leprosy. In fact, it was placed in the same category of miracles as raising someone from the dead. 

But what Jesus actually did goes much further than just bringing wholeness and restoration to a desperate man. By reaching out and touching him, Jesus demonstrates not only his authority and his power, but his love. 

In a society turned upside down by war, escalating crime, and splintering religious factions, many Jewish people—whether traditional or converts to Christianity—would have felt isolated. 

Its important to remember that Matthew is writing to a predominantly Jewish Christian audience, a community that was encountering new issues during a time of both social and political reconstruction after the first revolt against Roman rule (around 66AD) and the subsequent war that lasted 4 or so years.

During that time, vast numbers of Jewish people fled Jerusalem and Judaea and moved north, settling in Galilee and the surrounding areas. By the end of that 4 year war, the city of Jerusalem had been severely damaged, crime was rampant, and the temple itself had been destroyed.

The loss of the temple created a religious vacuum. People felt as though God had abandoned them—or that He was punishing them—and everyone was asking the question, “What does it even look like to be Jewish now?”

Interestingly, it was exactly during this period of chaos that the Pharisees would rise to become the new dominant force in the reconstruction of Jewish life and religious practice. This was the new age of the Rabbi. As the teachers of Jewish tradition and the interpreters of Torah and Law, it was this group who would come into conflict with the growing Jewish Christian community. 

It’s into this social and political turmoil that Matthew delivers his Gospel. He is writing to persuade them—to remind them—that Jesus of Nazareth was in fact the promised, and long-awaited for, Messiah.

Through this story—and the ones Matthew places next to it—we see a tangible demonstration of God’s love for those who are isolated, cut off, and living on blurred lines. 

So what are the implications for us as the church? What might this story be telling us about our role in the current age? An age of increasing isolation, an age of polarising ideologies, the new age of the meta-verse. 

Personally, I find myself left standing with this question…. Am I willing? 

Am I willing to actively participate in what God is wanting to do in this age—the period of history between Jesus’ ascension and his return. 

Am I willing to proactively love those around me in a tangible way that demonstrates God’s love for them?

Am I willing to reach out and touch—to embrace, to hold, to walk alongside—those in our community who are isolated. 

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Prayer
Jesus, move in power across our world. Stretch out your hand to heal, restore, and reveal your glory.

Image credit: Courtesy of Lumo Project Films

A first person account of the story found in John 2.

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The wedding feast was well under way and the guests were enjoying themselves as they danced and sang and celebrated with the groom and his new bride. As I moved through the crowd, filling cups and serving food, I noticed that one particular guest was at the centre of a group of people, who were in the middle of an animated discussion. I moved closer to see what was going on.

The man at the centre, a Rabbi I think, had been invited to the wedding along with his mother and his followers. I arrived just in time to hear him telling his mother, “Dear woman, that’s not our concern. And besides, My time has not yet come.”

At first I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but it soon became clear that they were discussing the fact that the wine had all but run out. I felt embarrassed for the groom.

Then, without warning, the woman turned to me and said, “Do whatever my son tells you!” By this time, some of the other servants had joined me, and the Rabbi instructed us to fill the five stone urns that were nearby with water. These urns were usually used for ceremonial washing rituals and they varied in size. The smaller ones held about 75 litres of water while the bigger ones about 113 litres of water. So we set off to fetch all the water we needed to fill the urns. To and from the well we went until all five were filled to the very brim. 

Once that was done, the Rabbi said to us, “Now fill a cup from one of the urns and take it to the master of ceremonies.” 

So I took a cup and dipped it into the urn, careful not to spill any. As I did, I saw something that I will never forget — the water had turned into wine! I immediately went to find the master of ceremonies. He looked at me for a moment, then took the cup from my hand and tasted it. The look of surprise on his face was priceless and he rushed off to find the groom.

“A host always serves the best wine first, then, when everyone has had a lot to drink, he brings out the less expensive wine. But you — you have kept the best until now!” 

Neither the groom nor the master of ceremonies knew where this good wine had come from, but I did. Whoever this Rabbi was, he had brought great joy and blessing to the groom and his new bride. This was going to be a wedding feast that would be remembered for years to come. 

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Personal Reflections

As I sat in this story, a few things jumped out for me…

The first thing that caught my attention was the idea that Jesus had the servants fill the stone water jars to the brim. This is not something that I can say I have ever noticed before. Now I’m not sure of His reasoning for doing this, but it occurred to me that by filling them to absolutely full, there was no way someone could accuse Jesus of sneaking something in. The other thing that stood out for me here was the amount of work involved in filling six stone jars. The story tells us that these were the kind of water jars used for Jewish ceremonial washing, each holding 2 or 3 measures (20-30 gallons or75-113 litres). That’s between 450 and 678 litres in total and that’s going to take some effort!

In the story, we hear Jesus’ mother tell the servants (plural – implying more than one) to do whatever her son tells them to do. So even if there were three servants, each servant would have to carry 150-226 litres each! How far away was the well? And how many trips back and forth did it take? We just don’t know, but either way, it required some effort. 

In a world that demands instant results, fast and efficient service and tap and go convenience; I am reminded that doing the work that Jesus sets before me will take time, effort and perseverance. 

As I reflected on this, I sensed the Spirit reminding me about my own ‘call’ to the work Jesus places before me. The truth is, I can only bring water and I must bring it in faith — not skimping or short changing — but filling the jars to the brim. That is all I am called to do. What Jesus does with that water is up to Him. 

One of the questions that came out of my time in this story was this; What is it about this generous, extravagant act that reveals God’s Glory? I’m not sure I can fully answer that just yet. Having said that, I was surprised to discover how this story plays out when you look at it from the Grooms perspective. 

For the most part, he has nothing to do with what is going on in this story, other than it is his wedding where it takes place. Yet, when you think about it, as far as the wedding guests are concerned, he is the hero of the story. It is the Groom who has invited the guests. It is the Groom who is hosting the banquet. It is the Groom who has blessed his guests with an extravagant surprise and a generous gesture. You see, as far as the guests are concerned, the Groom is the one who has saved the best for last. By serving the best wine later, he not only adds joy to the festivities, but he blesses his guests by honouring them as worthy recipients. 

I wonder, if like me on occasion, he had a moment of imposter syndrome? What if the guests find out this act of generosity is not my doing? What if the people around me discover what I’m really like? What if people expect greater things from me in the future? 

As I reflect on these questions and their implications in my own experience, I find myself drawn once again into the safe place that is God’s Grace in my life. I am reminded, once again, that it is He that lives in me that accomplishes His purposes through me.

This is good — not because it offers me an excuse to justify my lack of faith or fear of failure — but because it confirms that God’s Grace in my life is all I need. It is sufficient. Again, what he does with the water I bring in faith is entirely up to him. When people are blessed because of what I do or say, that is His work in and through me. I am not an imposter; I am simply a faithful servant doing what I have been asked. As I look back over the years, I can see quite clearly those times when I was happy to accept this position with humility. I can also see those time when I did not. 

One other aspect of this story that really caught my attention was the nature of the wine and what it might represent. When the master of ceremonies tasted the wine that Jesus had provided, he commended the Groom on saving the best for last. What Jesus has done here is astounding. Think about it.

This is not cheap wine made good — not something old made new or better — but something altogether new that surpasses the old. 

I am still processing what this means for me, but I have a suspicion. It seems to me that God is using this current time to prepare His Church for the new season that is unfolding and I also can’t help but wonder if God is planning to reveal His Glory in a new and wonderful way. 

A Kingdom of generous outpouring that brings joy and blessing. Not sure what that is going to look like — but I’m keen to be a part of it. 

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Image credit: Pixels

I love the story of Jesus ditching his parents in favour of hanging out in the temple in Jerusalem (Luke 2:41-52). Jesus’ parents had set off home towards Nazareth, thinking that the young Jesus was travelling somewhere in their group with the rest of their family and friends. Unbeknown to them, Jesus had stayed in Jerusalem and after a frantic three days of searching for him, they found him in the temple courts.

As I reflect on this story, I am drawn to verses 46-47.  

After three days they found him in the temple courts, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. Everyone who heard him was amazed at his understanding and his answers. 

As I consider these two verses, it occurres to me that this is an excellent example of a shared learning environment. Notice that Jesus is both listening to the teachers and asking questions. Notice also, that everyone who heard him (the implication being that ‘everyone’ here means those who were involved in the conversation) was amazed at his understanding and his answers. 

The best way I can think of to picture what is going on here is to visualise it with a diagram. 

This community of learning is not a new idea in the context of the Jewish temple. It is how people discussed ideas, debated topics and learnt from each other. I can imagine that at times it got quite lively. There was always room for disagreement and robust debate. But most importantly, there was a culture of listening and asking questions, of sharing answers and knowledge. 

I can’t help but wonder why we don’t encourage this more in our own faith communities. 

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Invitation to act: What might it look like if we actively invited people to participate in a shared learning environment? Imagine how vibrant and inclusive our faith communities might be if we dared to encourage people of all ages to step into the conversation and become active participants in a community of learning. 

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Image credit: Courtesy of Lumo Project Films

Every time I come across the story of Jesus calming the storm, I find myself wondering about the disciples’ response to what Jesus does. 

In particular, I have been confounded by the shift from fear to terror. 

When Jesus woke up, he rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Silence! Be still!” Suddenly the wind stopped, and there was a great calm. Then he asked them, “Why are you afraid? Do you still have no faith?” The disciples were absolutely terrified. “Who is this man?” they asked each other. “Even the wind and waves obey him!”
Mark 4:39-41

One of the questions we need to ask from this passage is ‘What does this story tell us about Jesus?’

As I think about this question, I am reminded of the story of when Jesus called the four fisherman. In Luke’s extended version of that event, we have recorded an interesting dialogue between Jesus and Simon Peter. You can read the story here.

When Simon Peter realised what had happened, he fell to his knees before Jesus and said, “Oh, Lord, please leave me—I’m such a sinful man.” For he was awestruck by the number of fish they had caught, as were the others with him. His partners, James and John, the sons of Zebedee, were also amazed. Jesus replied to Simon, “Don’t be afraid! From now on you’ll be fishing for people! And as soon as they landed, they left everything and followed Jesus.”
Luke 5:8-10

It turns out that the Greek word translated as afraid in Luke 5:10 is the same as the word translated as terrified in Mark 4:41. The word is Phobos and it implies to fear something or someone out of awe and reverence ( ie, the fear of God). 

This is significant. For Simon Peter, the realisation of who Jesus was in that moment resulted in fear. Why? Well, it turns out that there is a much deeper, historical context to Simon’s response,and it has its origins in Simon’s understanding of the Old Testament stories. 

You see, Simon fully recognised that this miraculous catch of fish was nothing short of a divine intervention by God. And he was afraid. Why? Because all throughout the history of Israel, whenever someone encountered the power and manifest presence of God, they expected to die. 

So what was it about who Jesus was that warranted the same response from the disciples in the boat on that stormy night? 

The answer can be found by looking at the difference between the two fears. 

In verse 40, Jesus asks them, “Why are you fearful?” The word here is deilos and it means to be afraid, timid or cowedly. The disciples, even though some of them were seasoned fisherman, were afraid that they were going to die in the raging storm. This is a natural human response considering the situation. 

Now contrast that with terrified in verse 41. To be more exact, the word terrified is actually made up of two greek words, phobos megas, or literally, great or intense fear. 

The disciples went from being afraid because of the situation they were in, to being overwhelmingly afraid because of what Jesus did. But what exactly did he do that solicited such a strong response? 

Once again, it turns out that there is a much deeper, historical context that explains the disciples response, and it has its origins in their understanding of the Old Testament.

You quieted the raging oceans with their pounding waves…
Psalm 65:7

You rule the oceans. You subdue their storm-tossed waves.
Psalm 89:9

Some went off to sea in ships, plying the trade routes of the world. They, too, observed the Lord’s power in action, his impressive works on the deepest seas. He spoke, and the winds rose, stirring up the waves. Their ships were tossed to the heavens and plunged again to the depths; the sailors cringed in terror. They reeled and staggered like drunkards and were at their wits’ end. 
“Lord, help!” they cried in their trouble, and he saved them from their distress. He calmed the storm to a whisper and stilled the waves. What a blessing was that stillness as he brought them safely into harbor!
Psalm 107:23-30

Like Simon Peter in Luke 5, the disciples in the storm tossed boat fully recognised that this miraculous calming of the wind and of the waves was nothing short of a divine intervention by God.

In the Old Testament, only God could command the forces of nature. Think about that for a moment. Jesus didn’t pray to his father to intervene on their behalf…the wind and waves were obedient to the power of His command!

The disciples’ awe inspired fear is understandable and their question is valid…

“Who is this man?”

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I invite you to pray with me: Lord Jesus, help me to gain a deeper understanding of who you really are.

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Image credit: Matt Fricker Photography

A longer story that I wrote over a decade ago, but one that feels more relevant to me now than ever.

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Everyday, come rain or shine, a man takes a walk around a vineyard. He walks slowly, carefully, his eyes continually scanning the vines. As he moves along the rows, his hands raised, he gently brushes the dark green leaves. Every now and then the man stops. Carefully, he reaches into the vine and takes hold of a bunch of grapes, his gnarled, sun bleached hands caressing the delicate fruit. A smile comes across his weathered face. The lines at the corner of eyes deepen as he looks around at all the other bunches near by. Fat, juice filled grapes hang heavy on every vine… except one. The man loosens his grip and leaves the grapes to continue growing. As he moves toward the vine that caught his attention, his eyes carefully assessing the situation, he sees something that causes him great concern. Slowly, the man drops to his knees. Getting close the ground, he examines the trunk of the vine. Digging just below the surface, he discovers what he expected all along. This vine, which for many years had been vigorous and fruitful, producing many, many grapes, was now dying. Its roots were withered up and its ability to drink deeply from the earth had gone.

As the man knelt there in the dirt, his mind was filled with many memories. It was as if this was the only vine in his vineyard. He remembered the day it was planted. He recalled how he had to hand water the fragile new root stock, almost willing it to survive. He fondly remembered the day that the first leaves appeared, and the time when frost almost killed it. He remembered the day when all the new vines were finally tall enough to be tied down to the trellis wire, and how bare they looked after their first pruning. As he recalled all this, the man felt a heaviness in his heart.

The vine keeper knew what had to be done. Even though this vine still had green leaves, its fruit was small, dry and bitter. Sure, it could continue to be a nice vine… but it was no longer a fruit bearing plant, and the reality is that a fruitless vine has no place in a vineyard. The man’s attention shifted back to the vine. Slowly, he reached his hand around to his back and pulled his lopping saw from its sheath. He opened the blade and placed the sharp teeth against the trunk, as low to the ground as possible. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out. As he did, he pulled the saw toward him. Its teeth cut into the dying vine as if it was butter. The man continued to cut, push-pull, push-pull… until eventually the teeth of the saw broke through the bark on the other side.

It wasn’t long before the season began to change, and long after all the grapes had been harvested, the leaves on all the vines began to turn red and yellow. Soon after that they fell to the ground, piling up in golden rows along the fence. Autumn gave way to winter. The cold, long days passed slowly and not much happened in the vineyard. Winter storms came and went, soaking the ground and causing the grass to grow thick and green. But every day, the man who owned the vineyard walked among the vines… watching, looking, waiting.

Ever so slowly, the grey winter was overtaken by the brilliant colors of spring. The fruit trees blossomed and the clover covered the ground like a carpet. Magpies started rebuilding their nests and the flying ants began to appear in the warm of the late afternoon sun. Everything was coming to life again. New growth appeared everywhere… but not on the vines. They hung on the trellis wire, pale and bare. Soon the vine keeper would come with his loppers and his pruning shears, cutting back last seasons growth, thinning each vine of all but the two strongest branches. These he would tie to the trellis wire, secure and safe from the strong easterly winds. The branches that got cut off were collected into large piles between the rows of vines and burnt, their ash being returned to the ground.

At last the pruning was done, and the man paused to look over his vineyard. He carefully scanned the rows of vines, looking at each one. Once again a smile crept across his face. It was a smile of satisfaction, of a job well done, and the man took great delight in the work of his hands. As he gazed over the vines in front of him, his eye once again fell on a certain spot. He made his way over to the spot and crouched down to take a closer look. There in the ground, in the very same place where he had kneeled in the dirt almost a year ago, was a new vine. It had only been planted a few days previously and already it had a new shoot. The man smiled to himself and spoke to the young vine, in a soft low voice that could hardly be heard. He reached out his hand and touched the tender shoot and for a brief moment, time stood still.

After a while, he straightened his back, drew a deep breath of the fresh spring air, and continued his walk through his vineyard… just as he did every day.

Rewritten from a post first published June 2015.

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Sometime between AD 15—20 Saul began his studies of the Hebrew Scriptures in the city of Jerusalem under Rabbi Gamaliel, in one of the the most prominent rabbinical schools of that day, founded by his grandfather, Hillel. Gamaliel was also the president of the Sanhedrin, a position he inherited from his father.

It was in this environment that Saul received his education in Judaism and became well versed in its dogma and law. Sometime during his educational years, it was instilled in him a fervent hatred for Christ and His followers.  This indoctrination set Saul up to become the perfect agent in the employment of the Sanhedrin against the Christians. In the thirty something years that Saul was in Jerusalem, he would have made many trips throughout the Roman world working to arrest and testify against the followers of Jesus Christ. One such trip was to the city of Damascus, located 130 miles from Jerusalem. Saul was going there with the sole purpose of arresting the followers of Christ.

Luke (the writer of Acts) tells us that Paul took the initiative of going to the High Priest to ask for authority to go to Damascus to hunt out the Christians there. While on his way to Damascus, Saul was stopped in his tracks by a blinding light. What followed was one of the most dramatic conversions in Christian history. Right there on the road, Saul was confronted by Jesus himself.

“He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, “Saul! Saul! Why are you persecuting me?”
“Who are you, lord?” Saul asked.
And the voice replied, “I am Jesus, the one you are persecuting! Now get up and go into the city, and you will be told what you must do.”
Acts 9:4-6

Saul of Tarsus became the apostle Paul, missionary to an unbelieving world and a fine example of faithful service in the face of fierce persecution. Saul’s education, his background as a Pharisee, his Roman citizenship, and his unflagging zeal all contributed to his success as a missionary, but only once those credentials and traits had been subjugated to the lordship of Jesus.

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Pray with me: Lord Jesus, I invite you to re-align any aspect of my life that needs to come under your lordship. 

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