What if Saint Nicholas, Santa Claus, Krampus — even Cinderella — were carrying a forgotten Gospel story?
Seventeenth-century art holds key Gospel clues — insights modern theology often overlooks.
This Advent, I’ve released a Christmas video that uncovers clues placed in plain view in old art, folklore, and Scripture — yet overlooked for generations. These clues reveal a deeper story — one that reconnects Nicodemus, Moses, the Well-born Woman, Thunder, and the long-forgotten companions of Saint Nick.
What This Year’s Video Reveals
In my 2025 Advent reflection, I explore how Europe’s Saint Nicholas traditions preserved fragments of an older Gospel memory — clues that survived in paintings, stories, and Christmas rituals long after their original meaning was forgotten. When I first encountered several 17th-century Dutch paintings, I had to rub my eyes: was the artist deliberately pointing to Cinderella, to Simon the Magus, and to a hidden Gospel drama using nothing more than a leather shoe and two parrots —one grey, one green? These images opened the door to a deeper story — one that reshapes how we understand Saint Nicholas, Thunder, Barnabas, and the Nativity itself.
Previously for Christmas 2023, I revealed how Early Christians linked Joseph to Thunder and how he became known as Barnabas — the Barn Father.
Where manger meets Cross: the Child of God, Eternal Love’s gift.
Where the Story Goes Next
This year’s video builds on that foundation of Joseph the Barn Father — weaving together Saint Nicholas, Krampus, Cinderella, Nicodemus, Moses, and the Well-born Woman in a way that reveals the Gospel hidden beneath centuries of art and folklore. The more I followed these visual breadcrumbs, the clearer it became: the Nativity story Early Christians preserved was richer, deeper, and far more interconnected than most of us were ever taught.
As my previous 2023 Advent video uncovered Joseph as Barnabas — the Barn Father (Acts 14:12), thus this year’s reflection reveals why early believers also associated Thunder with Joseph… and why the lantern-bearing figure in so many Nativity scenes was not merely symbolic, but theological.
The result is a pair of Christmas reflections — 2023 and 2025 — that speak to one another like two sides of a single coin.
Watch the Videos
To make viewing easy, I’ve placed both Christmas reflections together on my website: 👉 Watch the Christmas videos here:https://lindavogtturner.ca/videos
The 2023 Video: explores Joseph as Thunder, the Barn Father, and the meaning of the manger in light of ancient traditions.
The 2025 Video: uncovers the forgotten companions of Saint Nicholas, the hidden Gospel clues in Dutch art, and how Cinderella and Simon the Magus echo an older Christian memory.
As Advent unfolds, I hope these reflections remind you that Christ has always found a way to speak — through prophets and shepherds, through art and tradition, and through the stories handed down to new and old hands following Christ’s birth into this world. None of these witnesses are accidental. They invite us to listen again, to see again, to believe again.
Whether you watch one video or both, may they stir something deep within you: a renewed hunger for truth, a curiosity for solving mystery, and a fresh confidence in the eternal life Christ came to reveal — the life breathed by the divine Pair, Thunder and Lightning, who from the beginning have given life to the Son of Man… so that all may be born again.
Most people know the Bible begins with, “In the beginning…” but far fewer have paused to notice the Third Day.
Planting trees speaks to the Third Day of Creation — when God spoke, bringing the land, seas, and trees to life.
On the Third Day of Genesis, God spoke and established the land, the seas, the plants, and the trees — the foundation of life itself.
On another Third Day, long after Genesis was written, something else happened in a garden.
On the third day after Jesus was nailed to a tree and then taken down from the tree and buried, the Woman Jesus called Mary the Magdalene came looking and watching for the promised Bridegroom, the Rabbi called the Forerunner had testified about. The Tomb in a Garden of tombs was empty except for two angels in white sitting where the body of Jesus had lain, one at the head and the other at the feet.
Those guarding this Tomb down through the centuries have said. “What kind of ‘fake news’ is this?”
There is some truth to that question, suggesting that this story is fake, not quite what one assumes when one first looks into the tomb the guards are watching over.
Joseph and the Teacher of Israel both wrapped the body of Jesus in clean linen sheets and buried the body, within a stone cavernous body of Joseph’s making. Scripture records how the Woman Jesus called Mary Magdalene — and the Mother of Joseph — knew where the body of Jesus lay. But don’t be fooled by the title Mother because the Mother belonging to Joseph would be the Woman chosen to be the Mother of his children.
Did not the Baptist say he was not the Christ his disciples were watching and waiting for because the Bride belonged to the Bridegroom — John 3:28-29.
Are you listening thinking like Simon the Cyrenaic (man of worldly thinking)? Simon was chosen by Jesus as the Building Stone of the Church, tradition claims is the Bride who belongs to the Bridegroom.
Yet Simon — Peter, the Rock — balked when Jesus declared that the path led to Jerusalem, led to suffering, to death, and to rising on the Third Day.
Simon very adamently told Jesus that this would never happen and even called Jesus, Lord!
Peter took Him aside and began to rebuke Him. “Far be it from You, Lord!” he said. “This shall never happen to You!”
Now you may be hearing the wordsHim and Lord and thinking: Clearly. Jesus is Male. “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”Don’t let Patriarchal Language keep you in the dark.
Simon is in truth, rebuking the Woman Jesus — the one who had just chosen him to be the Father of a godly family. His words drip with sarcasm. He mocks her for daring to think that she, a woman, could claim such authority for herself and for him.
Suicide! he thinks. They plan to kill her.Does she not understand?
Yet the Woman Jesus trusted the word of her sister Martha’s Lord, who once said:
“Mary has chosen the good portion and will not be taken from her”—Luke 10: 42.
In Greek, the word “portion” is meris — not just a fragment, but a meritorious share, and inheritance that endures. That inheritance is what the Woman Jesus claimed, even as Simon mocked her.
Then the Woman Jesus turned and said to Simon the Cyrenaic — the Black Rock:
“Get behind Me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to Me. For you do not have in mind the things of God, but the things of men.” —Matthew 16:23
Yet Jesus the Woman did not leave the matter there, but added:
“If anyone would come after Me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow Me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it” —Matthew 16:24–25.
Later, what appears to be another Simon is named — Simon of Cyrene (Mark 15:21). The word Cyrenaic carries a double meaning: not only a man from Cyrene, but also a hedonist, one who seeks pleasure and avoids suffering. In this light, Simon the Cyrenaic truly was “thinking as men do,” worldly and unwilling to accept the Woman’s call.
Yet the mystery deepens: it is this same Simon who is compelled to take up the Cross. The Black Rock, once resistant, becomes the very one who shows what Jesus had promised — that in denying worldly pleasure, in taking up the Cross, one finds life on the Third Day.
Joseph of Kyrenia, called Barnabas and honoured as Jupiter, was seen as the earthly father. Simon of Cyrene, remembered as Simon the Black, carried the Cross as the heavenly Father incarnate. But worldly thinking divides his robe and identity.
Joseph and Simon are not two but one — the Everlasting Father whom the world calls by many names.
Jupiter was named the God of Thunder, and it is Thunder and Lightning that bring fire and cause the mountain to shake on the Third Day. This is the heart — and the cause — of the Third Day.
For the Third Day fulfills the Word of God, bringing back to life the Jesus whom worldly thinking seeks to silence — nailed to a tree uprooted from her roots — yet bestowing eternal life to those in the tombs.
The Orthodox Church sings this truth each week in the Hymn of the Resurrection:
Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and on those in the tombs bestowing life!
The hymn is not just a song of triumph — it is a declaration of hope in God’s power, which sweeps away false beliefs and fills humanity with incomparable hope.
Do we believe it? Or do we stumble at the very idea of taking up a Cross? Do we reduce it to soldiers and temple police nailing people to beams of wood? Or do we see the essence — the fragrance — of the Cross? For in dying to the world’s way of thinking, the breath of resurrection is given, bestowing eternal life on the Third Day — John 20:22.
Do dead people come out of their tombs and walk and talk and teach others? Scripture says yes.
Peter and John stood in front of the Gate called Beautiful and said to those crippled by worldly thinking:
“Look at us. Silver or gold I do not have, but what I have I give you: In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, get up and walk!” —Acts 3:6
What caused Peter and John to stand there? What caused Peter to declare:
“Therefore let all Israel know with certainty that God has made this Jesus, whom you crucified, both Lord and Christ!”—Acts 2:36
John’s role is often overlooked. Many still see him only as the Baptist who lost his head in prison. But John is also Jesus the Forerunner — Hebrews 6:19–20 — the Prince of Peace foreshadowed in Isaiah 9:6. Thus, with Peter — Christ the Everlasting Father, the Bridegroom of the Mother of God — John stands reconciled to him, not merely as a companion but as the right hand, the trusted friend, the one through whom victory is given to the people (Niko–demos).
The mystery is revealed when Jesus breathed out on the Cross, saying:
“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”
The Spirit entrusted is not lost, but received — into the Father’s hands, and into the hands of those chosen to guard both Gate and Tomb.
John, the Forerunner, stands as the friend of the Bridegroom; with Peter — who, having now declared his love for Jesus, becomes Christ the Everlasting Father.
Together Peter and John guard the Gate called Beautiful, bringing victory to the people.
In the mystery of the Third Day, John too comes alive again — as Moses, as Nicodemus, as the Teacher of Israel who prepared the people in the wilderness to meet God.
This Teacher knows the voice of God in thunder, and he knows that God’s eternal partner is lightning — lightning that can kindle wildfires, strike coal seams alive with fire, and keep the earth in electrical balance.
So do we stumble when Jesus says, “Take up your cross”? Do we reduce it to soldiers and temple police nailing people to beams of wood? Or do we hear what Moses heard at the bush that burned but was not consumed?
What if we turned back and listened to the Teacher of Israel?
He was the one who first heard the voice from the Burning Bush on the Mountain of the Lord — the bush aflame yet not consumed. At first, he felt unqualified to speak. He had killed a man. Yet he answered the call. He brought the Israelites out of Egypt, and for forty years in the wilderness he prepared them to meet God on the Third Day.
And how would he prepare them/us? With the Genesis Creation Story?
So turn with him, turn with me, back to the beginning. On the Third Day, God spoke — and the seas, the plants, and the trees came into existence. Think about this: God’s speaking breathed out carbon dioxide. Carbon dioxide is a form of carbon. And carbon is the building stone of all life. Without carbon, nothing on earth would be alive.
Thus, in Genesis, in the account of the Third Day, Moses the Teacher of Israel made an extraordinary observation: that the very element which holds life together — the same element many today see only as a threat — is the sign of God’s creative voice.
The Teacher told the people of Israel, and all who followed him out of Egypt, how God’s energy hovered over a dark, watery abyss and brought forth sound and light — together like an eternal couple, thunder and lightning. And out of that union the world was set in place, resting on a framework of seven days and seven nights of 1200 hours — sealed with the promise of the ark’s rainbow —and from the Mountain of the Lord, the rainbow can be seen as a perfect circle, an eternal covenant.
In the beginning, the earth was formed within a framework of seven days. Carbon — the building block of life — was woven into every molecule. Lightning split the skies, and thunder answered, releasing nitrogen, the fertilizer of creation. Yet worldly thinking mocks and dismisses this holy measure.
First Day: God Spoke saying let there be Light and then God called the Light Day and the Dark Night.
Second Day: God Spoke again and established the Sky and the Sea.
Third Day: Dry land, seas, plants, and trees were created.
Fourth Day: The Sun, Moon, and stars were created to mark seasons, days, and years.
Fifth Day: Sea and flying creatures were created.
Sixth Day: Land animals and humans were created.
Seventh Day:God blessed it and made it holy — the framework of time, a measure of the earth, given as blessing.
God’s First Ecumenical Environmental Charter: The Ark
The story of Noah’s Ark is often reduced to the image of a big wooden boat. But the deeper truth hidden in the measurements is that the Ark was never just a boat — it is a symbol of the whole inhabited earth.
In the days of Noah they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, ignoring the thunder and lightning. The flood came, and the Ark — a worldly barn of creation’s pairs, pulled together like carbon with oxygen, like gravity with love — was prepared and saved, thanks to Noah.
Genesis 6:15 gives the Ark’s dimensions: 300 cubits long, 50 cubits wide, and 30 cubits high. Instead of treating these as separate numbers, I added the breadth and height to the length, arriving at 380. Using the larger cubit of about 20 inches, the result was 7,600 inches. This number became the key to drawing not only the Ark, but also the hexagram and pentagram that frame it — resting on the mountain peaks, joined by the olive twig, and sealed with the rainbow of God’s covenant.
When I drew a square around the rainbow, the diagonal measured 12, and the circle’s diameter came to 8.4. What emerged was astonishing: by reworking the Ark’s measurements through simple arithmetic, the story points us toward the actual circumference of the earth. The Ark, like creation itself, carries within it the measure of the world — about 40,000 kilometers.
Even pi, that number we’re told the ancients didn’t have, is woven into the text. Dividing 144 by a cubit of 45.72 cm yields 3.14. The numbers are there for anyone with eyes to see.
This is why I call the Ark God’s first ecumenical environmental charter. It is not a children’s fable about animals in a boat; it is a revelation that creation is measured, balanced, and preserved within the covenant of God. The rainbow is the sign of this covenant — not only with Noah, but with every living creature.
The storm was over, the sun broke through, and from heaven’s teardrops the rainbow gleamed — as a friend’s sunny smile brings a promise of hope. Was this just coincidence? Or was it a foreshadow of the Third Day, when the Woman Jesus called the Magdalene — the promised Light of the World — shed her tears in the presence of the Teacher in the Garden?
Exodus 19: The Mountain Shakes and the Teacher of Israel is called to Ascend
Long before Israel stood at Sinai, people of every culture watched the skies and tried to understand the powers above them. The Egyptians worshipped the Sun as the supreme creator. The Greeks and Romans saw Jupiter, the storm-god with his swirling red spot larger than earth, as the Father of the gods.
Modern science now tells us that the Sun and Jupiter were formed together from the collapse of the same primordial cloud. Jupiter’s massive gravity still acts as a gatekeeper, deflecting many comets and asteroids from striking earth — though not all. This “gatekeeping” echoes Simon Peter’s role in the Kingdom of God.
“And I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build My church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven.”
More Science also tells us that lightning and thunder are born of energy building within a dark, watery abyss. A bolt of lightning superheats the air until it explodes; the shockwave becomes thunder. Lightning strikes can ignite trees; even coal can roar like thunder when struck by lightning on the surface or at mine entrances.
Thunder may not seem to serve a purpose beyond warning us, yet without it the earth would lose its electrical balance in minutes. Thunderstorms replenish what the constant flow of electrons drains away; without them, creation itself would unravel.
All of this becomes a backdrop for Sinai. On the festival of the Third Day, the Teacher of Israel — Moses, as the Egyptians had named him — brought the people to the mountain where he had first seen the bush ablaze but not consumed.
The mountain itself was wrapped in smoke and fire. Lightning flashed. Thunder roared. The blast of the ram’s horn grew louder and louder, and the whole mountain shook violently — Exodus 19:16–18.
And yet — while the people trembled below — Lightning flashed again, and Thunder answered. Moses was called upward. He ascended. He stepped into the thundercloud with lightning flashing, to speak with God, and God answered him in the thunder — Exodus 19:19–20.
You might think Moses was a brave man. But this was not the first time he had ascended Sinai. Before he was called to go and liberate the Hebrew people from the idolatry practiced by the Pharaohs in Egypt, he had already encountered God in the bush that burned but was not consumed. Orthodox Christians call this the Unburnt Bush and claim it is the Icon of the Mother of God, while her Son is the Power and the Father the Most High.
Six chapters later, after speaking with God and hearing Him answer in Thunder, Moses is once again on Mount Sinai. This time, the Lord instructs the Teacher of Israel to hammer a golden lamp from a single unit of gold, in the pattern of a blooming almond bush, with a main shaft and six branches. This Lamp Stand was to be set apart as Holy, and kept lit day and night with olive oil furnished by the priests serving in the Holy Place of the Tabernacle — between the Holy of Holies and the Court of the Gentiles where Jesus taught —Exodus 25:31–40.
For the Hebrew people, the Golden Lamp Stand symbolized the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden; for Christians it foreshadowed Jesus as the Light of the World. In Greek, this almond-branched tree is the Amygdala — hammered from the most precious metal to manifest God’s eternal presence and the Hope found in trusting that God is watching to ensure His Word is accomplished —Jeremiah 1:11; Isaiah 11:1.
Yet the disciples did not understand what Jesus meant by the Third Day. They assumed it meant He would be silenced as all dissidents were: imprisoned and executed according to political custom. Under Roman rule, that meant being nailed to wooden beams — trees cut and fashioned into crosses to display defiance crushed. Crucifixion was seen as the ultimate sacrifice that inspires courage. But is that Godly thinking? Or is it still worldly thinking that silences Jesus and keeps Him from rising — from ascending — on the Third Day?
Simon thought like a man, not like God, when he refused to believe that Jesus must go to Jerusalem, be tested by the priests and scribes, and be put to death on the Third Day.
Now on the Third Day, the Woman Jesus — the Almond Tree, the Amygdala — lay wrapped in the linen of Nicodemus and Joseph, buried in the cavern of their stony hearts. They had desired her and kept their love for her a secret, but now they shut her out, as if they knew her not. Yet when the stoney heart of Joseph’s making was shaken by angels and shepherds, the secreted love of these two men became more evident — except to the Woman Jesus called the Magdalene, when two angels told her that Jesus of Nazareth was no longer buried.
In tears, the Woman Jesus humbled herself and approached the Teacher in the garden of tombs, supposing she had been wrong about Peter, the one she had chosen. Seeing the Teacher watching over the Garden, she supposed he was the husbandman who had taken her Bridegroom’s place. But as she turned at the sound of his voice, and he said:
“Do not cling to me, for I have not ascended to the Father.”
She hears Joshua’s voice echoing to Israel when they were about to enter the promised land:
“Cling to the Lord as you have always done to this day.”
Her empty heart and soul began to fill with joyful expectation. She realized she was going to raise a divine familyand establish a new covenant. Her Husbandman was not dead, sitting on a throne in the sky. He was down by sea, a little shaken — trying to stand after a long night in the dark, and walk the talk on ankles strong enough to bring her out of the sea as the Tangled Catch of the Day.
The Heart of the Third Day
Now as the Creation Story, the Resurrection Story, and the Second Coming are mocked and dismissed as Fake News, I prepared this blog to invite you to turn back and listen to the Third Day ascension of the Teacher of Israel, the Egyptians named Moses.
The Third Day Ascension Event in Exodus demonstrates the Teacher of Israel’s power as the Son of God, born again and reconciled to God the Father with the Woman Jesus called the Magdalene — the I AM who is The Light of the World, the Gate, the Resurrection and the Life, the 153 Fish, the Womb of Life.
Peter, the Black Rock, is her Bridegroom — the one given the keys, whose love, whose gravity, like Jupiter’s, guards the covenant and keeps the gates of Hades from prevailing. And John, who kept watch under the cover of darkness, is Jesus the Forerunner who testifies that the Bride belongs to the Bridegroom — John 3:28–29.
Together Peter and John stand at the Gate called Beautiful, and Peter takes the lead, saying to those crippled by worldly thinking:
“Look at us. Silver or gold I do not have, but what I have I give you: in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise and walk.” (Acts 3:6)
The city lies foursquare — its divider measures 144 cubits. Its diagonal stretches 12,000 stadia, with foundations adorned in every kind of precious stone. Yet if thunder and lightning storms ceased, there would be no life. This pair sustains the electrical balance and renews the earth as it does in heaven.
The keys are in Peter’s hands, offered to all. Yet only those sons and daughters with the power — with eyes to see and ears to hear — will take them. They will link arms with Jesus the Forerunner and walk the talk, honouring their Mother and their Father in Christ and receiving the promise: to live long in the land.
Micah 6:8 And what does the LORD require of you but to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?
The Samaritan pours water, heeding the striking weight of Micah’s prophetic words, as the Rooster asks her for a drink.
The parable of the Good Samaritan has long been used to honour the Samaritan’s mercy and to encourage the laity to be kind to neighbours in need. Yet for centuries this story has also been used by theologians, priests, and ministers who have not fully understood it. Some have unwittingly kept the laity in the dark; others have deliberately politicized it to serve the world’s agenda. Secular values and ideologies have crept in to exploit the Samaritan’s mercy to keep people trapped in guilt, enabling sin rather than leading to repentance. Too often the Church has fed the milk of the Gospel without substance, to cater to new believers, forgetting that the parable calls us not only to show compassion, but to turn back and see God in fourfold harmony—Father, Mother, Teacher, and Grace.
The Parable challenges not only the Advocate, the expert in the law, and those standing and passing by, with the question: Who is my neighbour? It challenges all to heed the Lord’s requirement, anchored in the words of the prophet Micah:
"And what does the LORD require of you but to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?" — Micah 6:8
The parable of the Good Samaritan is not a weapon to shame or a license for reckless giving that could endanger yourself or your neighbour. It is a mirror. In the priest, the Levite, the Samaritan, and the lawyer we see ourselves—and each one, in their weakness or their strength, as neighbour.
The Samaritan of five husbands, bound to one not true, longs for the One who will send her out justly, like a never-failing stream.
In reply Jesus said: A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead.
A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side.
But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. “Look after him,” he said, “and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.”
“Which of these three do you think was a neighbour to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.” Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”
And who is that pitied man in the ditch — is it the Lord, the Rock? And is the Samaritan his Bride, the Advocate, who bathes his wounds with oil and wine?
The Samaritan, the Bride — holding the cup of suffering, wakes at the Rooster’s call. Yet the Lord does not seek pity.
Oh what love she bears for the Rooster, her neighbour and friend, who crows her awake. His priests and Levites stand beside him, reminding her: mercy must flow from a heart that is humble and just. She must not spend her purse to indulge dependence. She must walk humbly, wisely — and with grace.
For she is beloved — cherished by the Rooster, who is also friend to the Bridegroom. And the Bridegroom too must awaken: to remove her cup, to lift her stripes of suffering — if it be his will. For should he forsake her and tend only to himself and his purse, he will die alone.
For unless a single kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies to singleness, it remains alone. But if a man in love dies to the single life, he will rise and don the wedding garment, ready to tend his Bride’s sheep.
For the roots of covenant love run deeper than any single life — and like the ancient olive tree of Vouves in Crete, they bear witness across generations.
Emerging from ancient Grecian roots, the Bride wears the stripes of suffering, waiting for her Bridegroom to heed the Rooster’s voice and don his wedding garment. (Photo credit: Vouves, 2019, courtesy of Don Arthur Stewart, Vancouver BC — whose lens captured an iconic moment.)
The world tells the Crucifixion as a story of blood and nails, of bodies beaten and left to die on a Roman cross. It is told this way to make us shudder, to show us how horrible sin is when people turn violence into spectacle.
The Heartbeat of the Gospel: Communion incarnate in Mary Magdalene, the Amygdala
But God’s way is not the world’s way.
When I look at the Crucifixion, I do not see dripping blood and gore. I see a love story. I see God watching over the Word to bring His promise to fruition. I see memory awakening, relationships healed, and covenant love revealed.
The Third Day at Sinai (Exodus 19:19) echoes here: the fire, the lightning it sparks the Teacher of Israel—Moses—alive again with the Woman of Lightning and the Man of Thunder. What the world frames as death, God frames as reunion and resurrection.
The Crucifixion is not the end of a life.
It is preparation for Communion with God.
It is the heartbeat of Life Herself, coming alive to give us Eternal Life within a covenanting, loving relationship—as Bride and Bridegroom, as Teacher and Friend, and as all their blood relations.
So when I come to the table of the Lord, I do not taste death.
I taste Life—the heartbeat of the Gospel Herself.
The bread is not simply broken flesh—it is the shared loaf of covenant love, the heartbeat of Life pulsing through us as we eat together. The cup is not dripping blood—it is new wine poured out, memory restored, covenant joy, and the fire of love that binds us as Bride and Bridegroom, as Teacher and Friend, as Promise kept to Spirit.
Communion is not a funeral ritual.
It is a wedding feast.
It is Life remembered, Life reborn, Life eternal—Life alive forever.
The Cross is the Amygdala—the heartbeat of the Gospel, revealed in Mary the Magdalene, whose very name means the Amygdala. Here sinful thinking dies, fear and the demons of possession lose their grip, the world’s memory is healed, and covenant love is reborn. Sinners—and Simon’s love for the Woman Jesus and for those needing to see covenant love alive—compel Simon to carry the Cross of Jesus and reveal himself as Christ the Everlasting Father (Mark 15:21).
When I look to the Prophet Isaiah, I see Christ defined in fourfold form (Isaiah 9:6):
Mary the Magdalene — Wonderful Counsellor: the Amygdala, Queen of Heaven, Lightning, reigning beside the King of Kings.
Simon the Peter, son of Jonah — Everlasting Father: the Rock, called by love to serve; compelled by sinners, he took up the Cross of Jesus to save the world.
Jesus the Teacher — Prince of Peace: Moses reborn, John the Baptist’s head restored and released from prison forever; speaking peace again in our midst, trampling down death by death, and bestowing life to those in the tombs.
The Lady of Bethany (Martha) — the Almighty housewife: tending the oikumene, the household of God, watching over covenant love with grace and hospitality.
At the table, we receive not only forgiveness; we are invited into divine union eternal: God in us and we in God. The heartbeat of Life Herself still beats within us, carrying us forward into eternal covenant love—with Herself as the Cross, the Amygdala, the world’s memory, the Wonderful Counsellor.
With the words “Do this in remembrance of me,” we are called to remember that John the Baptist is the Forerunner—who calls us into repentance and points us to the She who hovered and the He who thundered: “Let there be light.”
We remember that John is the Teacher, the one who calls the disciples to testify, saying: “I am not the Christ. But I have been sent ahead of Him. The Bride belongs to the Bridegroom” (John 3:28–29).
With this post, I break the bread and pour the wine. I do not stage a funeral; I open a wedding table. The Cross is the Amygdala—her memory restored, new wine poured out, covenant love restored, and God’s children reborn.
I drink in Life—the heartbeat of the Gospel, restoring my soul and all those sharing this cup with me.
I invite you to listen for the heartbeat of the Gospel—the Amygdala, memory restored, covenant love reborn. Not a platonic affection, not a fleeting passion, but LOVE that is eternal—LOVE compelled to reconnect with those it has cherished from the beginning of time. For if the dead do not rise again with the heartbeat of the Gospel, Christ will not come again.
Or do you see what I see — the Magdalene’s heart and her heartfelt letters that turn bitter wine sweet?
The prophet Jeremiah speaks a word of hope that echoes through the ages:
“But this is the covenant which I will make with the house of Israel after those days,” declares the LORD, “I will put My law within them, and on their heart I will write it.” —Jeremiah 31:33
Mary Magdalene at the Garden Tomb—letter in hand, the Heart where the Law is written (Jer 31:33).
For generations, this promise has been heard as the end of doubt and the end of dependence on teachers, priests, prophets, or even on the Bible. As if after Jesus came into the world there would be no need for instruction or reading the Bible, because one’s very own heart would reveal the Law.
But what does this mean? Does this mean people’s hearts — or does this mean Jesus the Woman is the Heart, the Love of Jesus, that people need to have and to hold deep in their own heart?
To answer this, the Hebrew scriptures give us a veiled key. The word Megillah — the “scroll” — is feminine in Hebrew. Five books are called Megillot: Ruth, Esther, Song of Songs, Ecclesiastes, and Lamentations. These feminine scrolls reveal the veiled wisdom of God through a woman’s voice, a woman’s loss, a woman’s longings, and a woman’s courage.
In the Megillah of Ruth, surely it is the Magdalene’s broken heart that beats in Naomi’s. Naomi returns widowed from Moab and laments like a hen (Luke 13:34):
“Do not call me Naomi (sweet and beautiful). Call me Mara (bitter), for the Almighty (El Shaddai) has dealt very bitterly with me.” — Ruth 1:20
The prophets saw in such laments the need for a new covenant, one strong enough to compel the nations to abandon idolatry and return to the living God. The name El Shaddai, as Marc-Alain Ouaknin explains is the Woman’s breast. The breast does not act alone. The Heart provides for the breast, and the Heart lodged within the breast is regulated by the amygdala.
Our amygdala is a small part of the brain, but it has a megillah of a job. The amygdala governs memory and emotion by connecting them with the larger reasoning part of the brain.
This Mara is no passing shadow. She returns to Israel in the Garden of the Tombs at the Resurrection. She is Mary. She is the Magdalene, the Amygdala — the living memory of God’s covenant, where bitterness turns to beautiful blessing, where the restored memory of Israel heals the world.
The very organ in the brain that governs memory and emotion, the amygdala, bears the name Mara. It is here the law is written.
And yet Mary is not alone. She is bound by a covenant to her sister — Martha who also returns to life as promised with the coming of Jesus the Forerunner as his “Almighty housewife. For it is El Shaddai — the Lady of the house of Anna, of Grace, of John — who tends the oikumene, the household of God.
The tension between Martha and Mary resolves when Martha’s Lord reminds Martha that she is indeed Martha, the Lady of the House and that her Sister Mary has chosen the part given to her.
Thus it is because of Mary’s choosing that the womb of God’s covenant tramples down death by death, bestowing life to those in the tombs.
This is no empty claim. For this bestowed is provided for by the Almighty who works with the Gardener, the Husbandman of Creation — the Father, the Black Rock sequestered in the rich dark soil of the Earth. (John 15:1)
Pay Attention: This is the Covenanted Heart of the Gospel: trampling down death by death, bestowing life to those in the tombs. For the Father and his Heart came to earth as human beings reconciled to each other and to Jesus, the New Adam and the New Eve.
Some called this Father Simon, others Joseph — the earthly Father of Jesus, who was engaged to the Mother of Jesus, called the Virgin, the Pure, the Clean, by some and by others the Gate called Beautiful.
It was at the Gate called Beautiful, where Simon called Peter stood with John and first summoned the crippled man saying:
“Look at us.” —Acts 3:4
Jesus is the Gate, the Heart that guides reborn humanity into the Church, where the reborn learn to walk the talk, and where the Almighty housewife and her husband her Lord, bless them with hospitality.
Here at the Gate called Beautiful, the fourfold harmony of the Gospel is revealed with the Name of Jesus of the Branch — the Amygdala, the Hebrew Netzer, interpreted as of Nazareth. (Isaiah 11.1; Jeremiah 1:11)
Together, Mary the Heart, Martha the Breast, Peter the Rock, and the Johannine Rabbi the heralding voice, embody the covenant household of God.
The Heart remembers, the Breast sustains, the Rock protects, and the Voice of Testimony heralds the way. (John 3:28-29: Hebrews 6:19-20)
And yet, how easily people forget and are led astray. Jesus the man called John the Forerunner said of the Magdalene:
“Wherever the gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.” —Mark 14:9
When her role as the Heart is conquered and possessed by demons, the Church loses its way and people backslide — mistaking worldly thinking and power for service, forgetting the importance of forgiveness — silencing the very heart and voice that testifies to the memory of the covenant.
Pay Attention: Repent. Heed the Rooster’s call and know that the Greek Rooster is Alektōr.
Now get on the Mark as in Mark 15:21 and lift up your Cross, the Branch called the Amygdala, the heartbeat and memory of the Gospel—the Light of the World. (John 8:12)
Penitent Peter shows the way to redemption. He gives the Lame Man the name that opens the Gate called Beautiful. And that Gate is the very Heart Jeremiah heralds and lifts up as the prophetic promise of God:
“I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their heart.”— Jeremiah 31:33.
This is the mystery: the prophets saw the True Cross as more than wood and nails — a living letter of God written on the Magdalene’s heart. This Heart is the Magdalene’s heart — clean, pure, and steadfast, clinging always to her Lord, the earthly Father of Jesus.
Mary Magdalene — her heart the living Cross. Do you see the wood and nails, as the wedding canopy?
Last Sunday’s Gospel told of the woman who had been bent over for eighteen years (Luke 13:10–17). Many imagine her as physically crippled. But what if her bent form was not her spine, but her faith — burdened, restrained, oppressed by the weight of secular values and the blindness of those who could not recognize the feminine face of God within patriarchal language and imagery.
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This post is not for the faint of heart — it is X-rated, not in the worldly sense, but in the way of the Cross.
It's for mature readers ready for the meat of the Gospel, not the milk.
The Cross Placed in Her Hands
The Orthodox have long called themselves the “straight” believers; by that measure, all others are bent. I first glimpsed this out near Jericho Beach in Vancouver, where Orthodox voices rose in worship — at the tent, in the plenary, and even at the noonday meal — standing upright in their tradition as though posture itself could keep faith alive.
I came, instead, from a church shaped by modernity — bent in their imagination of God, with prejudice against evangelical believers and, by extension, Orthodox voices. Yet a certain Orthodox theologian saw me differently. In speaking with me face to face, glancing at my name tag, he recognized what others missed: that I stood alone, willing to speak out against the compromises of my church, while still advocating for the feminine face of God I glimpsed through the veil of patriarchal grammar and imagery.
The image of the Woman Jesus called bent is bound up with the number eighteen. For numbers in Scripture are rarely incidental. Seventeen marks the fullness of the womb — the sum of 1 through 17 being 153, the number of the great catch of fish. But eighteen is the turning point — the moment of re-birth, when what was long secreted in the comforting womb of Abrahamic faith is brought forth, standing straight and upright before those who see.
This is why Jesus (the Orthodox Teacher) calls her forward: not to heal, but to redeem her identity and to save that identity from being lost.What was bent is now revealed as straight. What was trapped is broken free.
And as the Woman Jesus herself declares — though patriarchal grammar veils it — “Wisdom is vindicated by all her children” (Luke 7:35).
In this, Jesus speaks as a full citizen, and this is why she is named “he” and portrayed as male — yet still unseen by the blind who cannot recognize her unveiled face.
This is the same summons we hear in the story of Zacchaeus — for Zacchaeus is not just a man up in a tree, but the bent one herself. Zacchaeus in Hebrew means “pure, clean.” It carries the same meaning as Linda in Italian, and in Spanish, Linda means “beautiful.”
Pay attention. The Bent Woman, the Madonna, the Bride are not three separate women. They are the same woman, given different names — the Gate called Beautiful, the almond branch, the Nazar.
As I wrote in What Defines You, one’s name seems to define a person, but families often give nicknames and titles of affection. So it is with the Gospel writers: the many names given to the Woman — like the many names given to Jesus the Teacher and to Simon the Rock — help the disciples glimpse the Bride’s true identity: pure and clean. The Advocate unveiled.
Don’t let patriarchal grammar snare you — “Son of Abraham” names her not as male, but as a full heir of the covenant, male and female together, as pure as newborn babes.
What was bent is not only raised, but reborn — like the waters of the womb breaking open, breaking babes free and giving them life.
Born of water and Spirit (John 3:5), what was hidden is revealed, what was bent is summoned forth to break free.
Breaking free, carried on the spray, she clings to the Rock as she has always done.
Last Sunday’s lectionary made this connection clear: the Bent Woman passage (Luke 13:10–17) was paired with Jeremiah’s call, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you” (Jeremiah 1:5), and the psalmist’s cry, “The Lord is my rock and my fortress” (Psalm 71:3). Together these two readings stand as pillars — the womb and the rock — anchoring the covenant promise that is now revealed in the Bent Woman, she who now stands straight and upright.
The womb bears life; the rock secures it. Together they steady the soul — as the old hymn sings:
“We have an anchor that keeps the soul, steadfast and sure while the billows roll; fastened to the Rock which cannot move, grounded firm and deep in the Savior’s love.”
Out of that steadfast love, divine love unfolds: like the sea breaking safely on the shore, the dear Lady too is borne forward in hope. The spray carries her until, from the beach, comes the Friend’s call — like the horn that signals safe harbour, at that first breakfast. At last she breaks free — redeemed, claimed by the Rock.
For what a friend she has in Jesus the Teacher, the Friend of the Bride and Bridegroom, who first finds her bent and bound to a man not her husband. Then, broken free, he calls out like a horn blast, sounding like an old Greek rooster, to Simon as he was singing down by the sea — so that he would leap into the water, don his wedding garment, and declare his love, as loud and clear as thunder: “Let there be love,” echoing that first command, “Let there be light.”
Recall how Moses the Teacher of Israel, spoke with God in thunder (Exodus 19:19). For surely it is this thunder that sings the psalmist’s song here in Psalm 71: 17.
“O God, from my youth you have taught me, and I still proclaim your wondrous deeds”
Had the lectionary included this seventeenth verse, perhaps ears would have perked up — as if a thunderclap from heaven, were jolting the hearer awake. For this is the very thunder of Simon the Rock, whose voice resounds with love — and in the very number of the song itself, a pattern thunders.
Seventeen is itself a prime — indivisible, whole — yet it does not stand alone. For in the mystery of numbers, it is paired with nineteen, its spouse, differing by only two. And just as thunder answered Moses in Exodus 19:19, so too this pairing echoes with covenant power.
Pay attention: the prime number pairing acts as a gate, opening the way into covenant mystery. Seventeen flashes as lightning — prime, indivisible and whole. Nineteen answers as thunder, echoing the lightning’s call — “On the morning of the third day there was thunder and lightning, and a pall of smoke, for there was fire… Moses spoke, and God answered him in thunder” (Exodus 19:16–19).
In Roman numerals, nineteen is written XIX — a palindrome, read the same forwards and backwards. The number itself mirrors what it proclaims: distinct yet joined, two becoming one. Spiritually, this difference of two reveals the mystery of covenant. When a man and a woman unite, their exact difference — the two becoming one — defines them as a new creation: “one flesh” (Genesis 2:24). Just as 17 and 19 are distinct yet forever paired by their difference, so too are Bride and Bridegroom forever paired and graced with covenant love.
Before she was called Paul, this crucified Bride was known as Saul — a name that whispers of the shawl that comforts, the pall that covers with dignity, the mantle of the Advocate interceding for the poor and covering the Bride. In time, that mantle was glorified in her, as her Spirit’s Gift revealed her true covenant identity. And so Paul could also write of herself as a nursing mother (1 Thess. 2:7), tending her children in faith.
Paul’s teaching partner, Apollos, confirms this mystery. Born in Alexandria, his very name marks him as Apollo, the light-bringer, whom the Romans nicknamed Phoebus. His wife, remembered as Phoebe in Romans 16:1–2, personifies the name Anna — Grace — the Lady of the House of Grace. By naming her, Paul also nods toward her sister of Bethany, the one who once fretted as she sat at the Teacher’s feet, thus acknowledging that household as part of the covenant story.
Together Apollos and Anna water the seeds Paul plants — I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth (1 Corinthians 3:6). Without the Rock — the source of life, full of carbon — there would be no foundation, no building block of Creation.
But it is Cephas — the Black Rock, God the Father made manifest — who gives the increase.
The Gospel writers sometimes called this Father of Jesus, Joseph, a name that in Hebrew means “may he add, may he increase. Thus, Cephas, named also Joseph ( by the Gospel writers, is revealed as the Bridegroom who belongs to the Bride: the living stone the builders rejected is the living cornerstone revealed. His faith in her and the encouragement of his songs may seem like black magic to some, yet his love for her lets her light shine — “…for no one lights a lamp and hides it under a bushel, but sets it high so that all may see and be guided.”
Thus when Jesus the Orthodox Teacher calls the bent woman to stand from a tangle of oppression, it is not only her release from bondage, but the unveiling of this union: womb and rock, Bride and Bridegroom, joined in covenant love and grace. Here the bent woman herself is revealed as the crucified Bride — the one Paul names in her own flesh, “I have been crucified with Christ” (Galatians 2:19).
As Kazantzakis dares to imagine in St. Francis — a work once charged with blasphemy — the amygdala cries: “forgive me, my sisters, for blooming too soon.” For Bethany is the House of Anna, where the Lady of the House (Martha, in Aramaic, meaning “lady”) welcomes her sister, the Woman Jesus called Mary, who is the Magdalene, the Amygdala. As noted in What Defines You, the names given to these figures reveal Christ —not as separate characters, but in covenant roles of Bride and Bridegroom, in communion with the Orthodox Teacher and his housewife in Bethany — the House of Anna.”
The womb and the rock hold together the covenant plan of love and grace — as steadfast as the household in Bethany, where the Lady of the House opens her doors in welcome.
And it is the Orthodox Teacher — the Forerunner, the Friend of the Bridegroom — who, like a faithful old Greek rooster, alektōr, crows when the light appears.
He heralds both crucifixion and resurrection.
He anchors the soul of the Bride and her children to the Rock.
And he restores hope both inside and outside the Holy of Holies (Hebrews 6:19–20).
“From bent to breaking free — the Bride breathes out her vow.”
As I wrote in From Tangle to Covenant, the net that had become a tangle and a snare — in Peter’s hands — personifies faithfulness. It rests upon her like a prayer shawl, full of grace and transformative power. In humility, modestly covering her as she prays, it dignifies her with new authority.
From bent to breaking free — the Jesus Woman, Christ the Bride, pledges her troth into Simon Peter’s hands, her promised Rock and Fortress.
She sends the disciples out with the authority and encouragement he gives her.
With the words of the Great Commission:
Go therefore and make disciples of all nations
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From bent to breaking free — the Jesus Woman, Christ the Bride, breathes out: —“Into your hands I commit my spirit, Father — for You are my Bridegroom.”
I was prompted to write this reflection after reading a post on The Preacher’s Word, where the question was raised: What defines you?
That question has stayed with me. It has echoed through my mind as I’ve been writing this recent series of blog posts — Priming the Pump, From Tangle to Covenant, The Heartbeat of the Gospel, and The Petition of the Bridegroom. In each one, I’ve been exploring how faith reveals itself in ordinary lives and extraordinary moments.
And yet, for me, the question of what defines a person is not abstract. It is bound up with the memory of my late husband Gordon, who, on the day he drowned in Cuba, left me with an unforgettable sign of how Christ still defines our lives.
Pondering the question: Does Christ define us?
That morning, Gordon was reading Mornings with Henri J.M. Nouwen. He had the habit of underlining passages in red ink—words that spoke to him as a minister, a husband, and a man of faith. The passage he underlined that day was this:
“The challenge of ministry is to help people in very concrete situations—people with illnesses or in grief, people with physical or mental handicaps, people suffering from poverty and oppression, people caught in the complex networks of secular or religious institutions—to see and experience their story as part of God’s ongoing redemptive work in the world. …to create a new unity in which memories that formerly seemed only destructive are now reclaimed as part of a redemptive event.”
I did not know then how those words would become my own lifeline. When Gordon drowned, I felt abandoned by God. Yet later, standing in the morgue, I leaned over his face and whispered, “I’d resurrect you if I could.” And as I spoke, something happened that I did not understand at the time: Gordon drew in one last breath.
Years later, as I studied Greek, I discovered the verb for “suck in” is roufó. Suddenly, that moment came alive again.That after-death inhalation, sucking up a tiny pearl of water, became a visual reminder that it is the Mother of God who is the Womb of Life, and that every breath we draw first comes from our mother. Gordon’s roufó became for me a witness that love itself is never lost, but drawn into God’s redemptive work.
Gordon at Jazz Vespers — the Jazz Priest.
Gordon was proud of the nick name Dal Richards gave him. Dal— known as “Vancouver’s King of Swing”— called Gordon the Jazz Priest. And I called him my “Gordian Knott.” Gordon was a good golfer and an even better knot-tier. He loved connecting people, and he bragged that he had married a thousand wives— like King Solomon. With his death, even his name became a parable for me.
For like the tangled Gordian knot, grief seemed impossible to unravel, and I was impatient. I wanted a definitive answer. Why did he not fight to live and breathe for me, his Lady Love? Yet as I wrote in From Tangle to Covenant, such knots are not patiently undone—they are cut through by a bold act of faith. Saying yes to the Spirit and the Truth, putting on the whole armour of God and living your faith, walking the talk.
That bold stroke is the heartbeat and soul of the Gospel. For me, the stories of Jesus are not distant history; they are as close as the heartbeat and breath of a mother. Yet Gordon’s final breath, paired with Nouwen’s underlined words, became a visual reminder that carried me forward — into faith renewed, anchoring my soul to the hope that I would not remain a widow. In my grief, I felt like a lamenting red hen, longing to gather the faith community that Gordon and I had once nurtured together. Yet with his passing, I also felt the ache of losing my place as a minister’s wife.
Linda with the fresh fragrance of resurrection, St. Andrew’s —Wesley United Church 2009.
Then I remembered that Jesus herself once lamented over Jerusalem, aching to gather her children under her wings. What people in their sins could only realize in masculine form, I came to realize in fullness: Christ as Mother, belonging to the Father, who lifts her own on eagle’s wings into covenant love. As the Bride belongs to the Bridegroom, embraced and witnessed, so too does Christ in union with other witnesses bring the joy of the world — making the world go ’round (John 3:28–29).
For had Gordon not “fallen asleep by the sea,” I would never have been free to fall in love with my bridegroom. My bridegroom is a Simon. That is not the name his mother and father gave him when he was born. Let me explain. There are nine men in the Gospels named Simon, ten if you include Simeon.
Simon Peter: Simon the Zealot; Simon the brother of Jesus; Simon the Leper; Simon of Cyrene; Simon the Pharisee, Simon Iscariot; Simon the Magus; Simon the Tanner; and Simeon who with Anna the prophetess, was the first to recognize Jesus as the Promised One.
One’s name seems to define a person, but families often give each other nick names, pet names. So it is very likely the Gospel writers named the Promised One with names to help the disciples glimpse the fullness of the Bridegroom’s identity: the One who the witnesses at Lystra described as incarnating Thunder itself, the divine voice paired with Lightning — Mercury, the Star of the Morning — in keeping with the Teacher of Israel who ascended the Mountain of the Lord on the Third Day at Sinai.
Don Stewart on stage — drawing a thunderous applause. Learn more at donstewart.ca.
My fiancé, Don Stewart — my bridegroom of promise — is the man in my life who listens with his whole body, whose faith and love for me are expressed through his music and the music of other musicians full of Christian memory, some of which may be secreted in the depths of their souls. This music shining light on the Gospel and their beloved Lady brings a thunderous applause. And when my Don agreed to let me dedicate The Ecumenical Affair to him, it was his way of saying: Divine love is what defines us still and it is what makes the world go’ round.
When Gordon drowned, I truly felt as if God had abandoned me. Gordon was an avid golfer. However, that was not what defined him. He was a Minister and a dear friend of Henri Nouwen’s. And so Gordon would say, Christ was defining his life still.
Gordon golfing — remembered with joy at his celebration of life, January 2009.
When I created that bookmark for Gordon’s celebration of life, it was simply my way of honouring his memory. At the time, I did not yet grasp the profound gift secreted in his last breath — a gift I would only come to recognize much later, as if planted like a seed to be revealed in the fullness of time.
It was not the breath of dying, but a breath that came after death had spoken — that after-death inhalation, sucking up a tiny pearl of water, became a visual reminder that it is the Mother of God who is the Womb of Life, and that every breath we draw first comes from our mother.
And in that breath, Gordon was also reminding me — his red-haired Lady, his Rufus — that my destiny was bound to the One who would draw the sword of faith and petition the Governor for me. As Simon of Cyrene carried the Cross of Jesus (Mark 15:21), so too would the Bridegroom of promise waiting for me carry the Cross of Jesus and bring people together in covenant love.
Life, then, is never defined by one fleeting moment alone. It is the Gift of God — like the living water Jesus promised the woman at the well (John 4:10). He did not give it to her directly, but primed her to seek her Nathanael — her soul mate, the promised gift through whom covenant love would be revealed (John 1:47–48). Each breath is that gift, drawn in and poured out again, sometimes sweet, sometimes bittersweet, always touched with mystery. Gordon’s last breath — his roufó — reminded me that our very breath is God’s gift of love.
And so, finding our soul mate, our bridegroom or bride, becomes part of that gift too — a sign of the covenant God weaves into our lives. That is why the box of chocolates, like the old Christmas gifts of coal transformed into sweetness, still speaks: it symbolizes the mystery of love and the promise we are called to cherish and share.
Black Magic chocolates — like the question “Does Christ define us?”, they carry the sweetness and mystery of love, a gift to be cherished and shared.
Christ’s love, like life itself, is both fragile and enduring. It is what defines us still — and it calls us to cherish the Christian promise and share it, drawing a thunderous applause from all who witness and greet this love.“
“The Bride alone is not the Christ, nor is Jesus the Teacher alone the Christ. The Christ is revealed in the union of Bride and Bridegroom, witnessed and embraced. In covenant love, witnessed by others, the fullness of Christ comes alive.”
Christ’s covenant love — fragile yet enduring — is what defines us still. May this love bring you face to face with Christ and your beloved, until we meet again.
This week, my bridegroom has found himself in a place no man should have to sit or stand — humbly petitioning the powers of this world for what should already be his by right.
Petitioning the governor—humbled in scarlet—for the legal right to covenant love.
Without the release of a single file number from Ottawa’s vaults, our upcoming marriage cannot be licensed. It is a position that echoes another scene long remembered in the Gospel — when Joseph of Arimathaea, an honourable counsellor who waited for the kingdom of God, went in boldly to Pilate and begged for the body of Jesus. Few see the courage it takes to sit or stand before authority, not for oneself, but for love’s sake — to claim what belongs to you in covenant, yet rests in another’s hands.
Simon is called to leave his single life behind for the victory of the Third Day.
That call — to carry the cross, standing face to face before Jesus the Forerunner, the Alektōr whose neighbourly crow gathers the Bridegroom, the Bride, and all their kin face to face in covenant faithfulness — is as real today as it was on that morning by the sea.
Even in Roman times, honourable citizens valued monogamous marriage and were free to divorce — but the right to marry again required the proof of proper documentation. While many commoners simply lived together, noble men and women sought the covenant of marriage — to give their children legitimacy, protect their property and inheritance, and provide for a widowed partner.
It was, after all, John the Baptist’s bold challenge of Herod’s unlawful remarriage that cost him his head. Perhaps that is why, in every age, the bridegroom who would claim the bride his soul craves finds himself caught in a tangle of politics, law, and conscience — a knot as stubborn as the legendary Gordian. The old stories tell us such a knot could not be untied by ordinary means; it had to be cut through in a single, decisive stroke of the sword.
Scarlet, thorns, and gourds — a knot in play as the Alektōr watches.
A robe of scarlet, a crown of thorns, and gourds at the foot — a knot as tight as a ball in play, waiting to be cast to the right side of the boat or court. Like the Gordian knot, it will not yield to patient effort; it must be cut in a single, decisive stroke.
On the distant shore, Alektōr — the rooster who greets the dawn and guards his barnyard — keeps watch to ensure that God’s promise given to the almond branch in Jeremiah’s vision (Jeremiah 1:11), is fulfilled. Will you, like the Bridegroom of faith, take the bold stroke with the sword of the Spirit, rather than wait for the knot to unravel on its own?
“And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God” (Ephesians 6:17).
Joseph of Arimathea is Simon—because the Gospel writers describe the Bride’s chosen Bridegroom as a man who hears and does the Word of God. In Mark’s Gospel, it is Simon—believed to be a Black man—who carried the cross of Jesus, and who is revealed as Joseph when he took courage and claimed the body of Jesus. Two moments, one man of faith: the cross-bearer whose love for Jesus deepens into bold action.
The Gospel lifts up the cry of the Alektōr—calling us to take up our own cross, act faithfully, and cut through every tangle that keeps us from showing our faith in the Bridegroom and imitating his courage—so that we, too, may be on the Mark when the Rooster crows.
For it is Simon, the Rock, who stands as the building block of the Church—the stone the chief builders stumble over—because they mistake Joseph for just a carpenter shouldering wooden beams, and fail to see him as a bard and entertainer, joined with his Bride, the wise maker of home and temple. The Bride and her chosen Bridegroom have heard the Rooster’s call—his cry breaking the dark before the dawn—and the three bear witness to the Good News: Christ is risen. The Bride belongs forever to the Bridegroom.
Beneath the divine canopy, justice and peace kiss, and heaven and earth bear witness to Christ’s new covenant.
If this glimpse beneath the divine canopy stirs something in you, come and see how the Gospels have preserved this story — of a Bridegroom and Bride whose covenant love transforms hearts, overturns old assumptions, and reveals the kingdom of God. Each of my posts is a step in untangling the knot. Your gifts of grace, hospitality, and faithful discipleship and witness are the foundation on which future generations will stand.
A post on ThePreachersWord left me reflecting on the question: “Are the things I am living for worth Christ dying for?”
It brought to mind Jesus’ words in John 12:24 — “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”
Paul reminded the Corinthians that if the dead do not rise, then neither has Christ — and if that’s true, our faith is empty. But because Christ has risen, we have every reason to live with Passion and hope.
My passion? The old hymn says it well: “I love to tell the story of Jesus and His love… ’twill be my theme in glory.”
The love of Jesus isn’t abstract; it has a face — the Woman Jesus called Mary Magdalene.
Mary Magdalene — the woman who loved much, holding the heartbeat of the Gospel.
The following day, in another blog post ThePreachersWord pointed out that when people log in as working from home, but spend their time pursuing personal interests, they are “ghostworking.” He then asked:
“Why do some Christians never seem to grow spiritually? They attend worship services, Bible classes, and some fellowship functions. Yet, little progress has been seen in their lives… Are they, in essence, just ghostworking their discipleship?”
That challenge takes root when we listen for the heartbeat of the Gospel.
For me, the stories of the Gospel are more than distant history; they can be as close as the very breath and heartbeat of the mother who brought us to life, so we could feel the loving hands of our father and recognize his face and authority.
The Rooster — that old Alektor — didn’t call Peter to be a spectator. He called Peter and his hands to be doers and hearers of the Word, to carry the cross daily, and to make a wholehearted commitment to Jesus — as all husbands should do to honour their wives.
And that call still echoes for us today.
If we truly watch and listen with that kind of intimacy, ghostworking in the Kingdom will never be an option — and our own fathers, and husbands who father our children, will be kings in our home and in the kingdom of God with Christ the King of Kings.
Carrying the cross — under the watchful eye of the rooster’s call.
That call — to carry the cross, standing face to face before Jesus the Forerunner, the Alektor, whose neighbourly crow gathers the Bridegroom, the Bride, and all their kin face to face in covenant faithfulness — is as real today as it was on that morning by the sea.
If this reflection speaks to you, I invite you to linger a little longer — follow my blogs & posts as I explore the stories, scriptures, and symbols that keep calling me to reverberate the heartbeat of the Gospel.
For centuries, Peter has been cast as the rough fisherman whose nets overflowed at Jesus’ command.
But what if the “153 fish” was never a fish or numerous fish at all? What if the number was not about the size of the catch at all, but about the Fish itself — marked with a sacred number?
What if that number pointed to the Magdalene — the womb of life — and to Peter himself, not as a fisherman, but perhaps a bard, an entertainer some thought was magical… and as the Bridegroom?
It was morning on the Sea of Tiberias. The air still held the heaviness of night. Peter’s net — his network of fellow workers, his “hands” — hung limp and empty, sagging with the weight of failure. Making a living by the sea was hard. Entertaining fishers and working stiffs was no easier. The men and women toiled in darkness, and after expenses and taxes, nothing was left to take home.
The gospel story, bound tight, awaiting a thunderous voice and hands to release it.
Then a voice from the shore — a voice Peter knew yet dared not name — called out, “Cast your net on the right side of the boat.”
The net Peter held and lifted up with the help of his lead hands was tangled into a giant ball—like the legendary Gordian Knot… tightly woven, defying anyone to untangle it. Yet that old Alektor — people claimed was divine — thought he could simply use his sword.
Wisdom is indeed vindicated by her children who know that the number given — 153 — to the big fish that swallowed Jonah adds to the tangled net Peter and his hands struggled with in the dark… as they worked and lived by the sea.
In the dark, living down by the Sea — without having a priestly education — Peter had seen and heard how the boat builders and the sailors and bards and even the athletes of old Greece and Rome could toss a ball and have it land on the right side of the court… or boat. He knew how the priestly class bragged about how the Teacher of Israel had fashioned a Golden Lamp Stand by hammering gold into the shape of the Amygdala… and how they kept her behind the curtain in the Holy of Holies, so that only the priests could share her light with the common people such as him and his pals.
As Peter worked in the dark, people were waiting for him to toss this tangled net — that he and his hands held as if it were their mother’s last breath — on the right side of the boat.
The net was the gospel story itself, knotted with interpretations the priestly had long guarded as sacred, held and held as though letting go would be a sin.
He could hear voices in the boat and in the pubs, arguing and complaining.
The mathematicians had long ago declared the 153 as the Vesica Piscis — the mother of all life — and proclaimed the flower of life, created from this ratio of 153/265, as sacred geometry.
Sacred geometry: the Vesica Piscis and the Flower of Life — echoes of the 153/265 ratio.
So the question may be welling up in you, even as you read this post: What good will it do if I see and hear Peter affirm his love for Jesus? Will that make a difference in my life? Will that put food on my table?
And yet, when Peter heard that voice from the shore urging him to cast his net on the right side of the boat, he knew it was more than fishing advice — it was a summons to take up the robe of the Bridegroom. He remembered the old songs and stories that told how the Greek letters spelling “The Magdalene” carried the value 153. And like any schoolchild, he knew that adding the numbers 1 through 17 would give the same total — the number marked on the great fish of covenant and repentance.
So is it any wonder that in the seventeenth verse, the author of John has Peter and his Bride speak their love?
A love named three times — not as a formula, but as a restoration.
A love spoken in the dawning light, reminding their followers to honour their father and mother so that they would live long in the land.
And those still fishing in the dark, hoping for a catch that they can sell, will say:
“Oh, that is merely a coincidence. Everyone knows that Peter’s love for Jesus was strictly platonic.”
Hooked on covenant — the almond flower, catch of the day
Linda Vogt Turner 