Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 27: 666

Read Revelation 13:1–18

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“But Peter and the apostles replied, ‘We must obey God rather than any human authority.’” (Acts 5:29, NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we’ll look closer at the sacred signs that shock, unsettle, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

Two hands exchange a U.S. hundred-dollar bill in warm, low light. The focus is on the act of transaction rather than the people involved. The words “In God We Trust” are visible on the currency, while the background remains softly blurred, emphasizing ordinary participation and trust embedded in everyday exchange.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Sacred Signs of Subversion, Part 27: 666” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 27: 666. When Colin Kaepernick first protested during the national anthem, he didn’t kneel. He sat. And when he was told—by a former Green Beret—that sitting could be interpreted as disrespectful, Kaepernick listened. The soldier explained that kneeling is how service members honor those who have fallen; it is a posture of mourning and respect. So Kaepernick changed his posture. He knelt during the national anthem. But that distinction didn’t matter. What followed was not really a debate about patriotism, the flag, or even the military. It was something older and far more revealing. The outrage was about participation—about whether a public ritual of loyalty could be interrupted without consequence.

That tension is not new. Rome lived by it. In the Roman Empire, belief was flexible. You could worship many gods. You could even worship Jesus. What mattered was that you showed allegiance to Caesar. You paid tribute. You honored the empire. You participated in the system that promised peace, security, and survival. Refuse that participation, and you weren’t just religious—you were dangerous. This is the world Revelation speaks into.

When John writes about “the beast” and its mark, he is not predicting a future monster. He is naming a power his readers already know. Using Hebrew numerology, the number 666 corresponds to Neron Kaesar—Nero Caesar. By the time Revelation is written, Nero is long dead. But rumors persist that he will return, that the empire’s violence will resurrect itself, that the same kind of power will rise again, feared by some and hoped for by others who remembered Nero as hero and god. John is not interested in Nero’s biography; he is naming an archetype.

Nero becomes shorthand for empire itself—a system that demands loyalty, rewards compliance, and punishes conscience. A system that does not care what you believe, so long as you behave, so long as you participate. That is why Revelation says no one could buy or sell without the mark. The mark of the beast was not about belief; it was about participation. Rome did not persecute Christians because they worshiped Jesus privately. It persecuted them because they refused to say, “Caesar is lord,” because they would not perform allegiance when allegiance was required.

The mark is not something forced onto the body. It is something accepted for the sake of access—the cost of doing business, of staying safe, of being considered a “good citizen.” That is why Revelation remains dangerous. The beast does not demand that you abandon Christ; it demands that you rank Christ lower—lower than order, lower than stability, lower than belonging, lower than the system that makes life easier. And often, that loyalty is given in Christ’s name, sanctified by familiar language and stamped onto the very currency we are told to trust.

The beast does not oppose Jesus outright; it rebrands Him. It dresses power in religious language, calls domination “values,” labels refusal as disloyalty, and even presumes to invoke God while regulating who may buy and sell. It praises faith, as long as that faith never interrupts the rituals that keep the system intact. This is why Peter’s words matter: “We must obey God rather than any human authority.” Not because obedience is dramatic, but because it is costly. The question Revelation presses is not whether you believe. It is whether you will participate.

Revelation does not leave us with monsters to fear, but with mirrors to face. It asks where our loyalties truly lie when allegiance is demanded and comfort is on the line. Do we give our first loyalty to Caesar reborn in new forms—to a president, a flag, a nation, or any empire that promises order and protection? Do we confuse faith with patriotism, or obedience with belonging? Or does our loyalty remain with Christ alone, even when that allegiance costs us access, approval, or security? Revelation does not ask these questions to condemn, but to clarify—because in the end, neutrality is not an option, and participation always reveals who, or what, we serve.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The mark of the beast is not what you believe, but what you are willing to go along with so life stays comfortable.

PRAYER
God of truth, give us courage to obey You when obedience costs us belonging, security, or approval. Expose the loyalties we perform without thinking, and free us from the fear that keeps us silent. Teach us to follow the Lamb wherever He leads, even when the world demands we fall in line. Amen.


Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 26: Sword

Read Matthew 10:34–39

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Put your sword back into its sheath,” Jesus said. “Shall I not drink from the cup of suffering the Father has given me?” (John 18:11 NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we look closely at the sacred signs that unsettle, challenge, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

A solitary medieval sword stands planted upright in barren, rocky ground beneath a stormy sky. A beam of light breaks through dark clouds, casting a clear cross-shaped shadow across the earth and the blade. No people are present. The scene is still and solemn, emphasizing restraint, sacrifice, and the cost of truth rather than violence.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 26: Sword” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 26: Sword. The sword may be the most misunderstood symbol Jesus ever invoked.

When Jesus says, “Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword,” many readers rush to one of two conclusions. Some hear permission—conflict sanctified, division justified, harm excused in the name of truth. Others rush to soften the words, insisting Jesus couldn’t really mean division at all, because peace must always be preserved.

Both reactions miss the point.

Jesus names the sword because truth embodied does not leave relationships untouched. When truth takes flesh—when it walks, speaks, and refuses to perform for comfort—it divides. Not because it seeks conflict, but because it removes the illusion that everyone can remain unchanged. The sword Jesus brings is not violence. It is exposure. It cuts through false unity, inherited loyalties, and identities built on silence.

And yet—this is where the symbol turns dangerous—Jesus never allows that sword to be wielded without cost.

When Peter reaches for steel in the garden, certain he finally understands what faithfulness requires, Jesus stops him. Not gently. Not ambiguously. “Put your sword back.” The same Jesus who named division now rejects domination. The same Christ who promised rupture refuses coercion. The sword is real—but it does not belong in human hands as an instrument of control.

This is the subversion the Church has spent centuries struggling to live with.

We want the sword Jesus brings, but we want it usable. Swingable. Directed outward. We want truth that wounds others while leaving our own power intact. Peter’s mistake was not malice; it was loyalty shaped by fear. He believed the threat required force. Jesus reveals something far more unsettling: truth will divide on its own. It does not need help. And the moment we try to enforce it, we betray it.

Scripture itself holds multiple sword images in tension. There is the sword that divides households. The sword that cuts inward, exposing motive and desire. The sword that comes from the mouth, not the hand—speech that judges without shedding blood. There is even the sword the Church keeps reaching for, baptizing power as protection and calling control faithfulness.

Jesus refuses all of them—except one.

He refuses violence. He refuses coercion. He refuses domination. But He does not refuse the cost of truth. He accepts the division that comes from living honestly, from refusing to perform peace at the expense of integrity, from standing where the light reveals what cannot be reconciled.

The sword Jesus brings does not destroy enemies. It ends neutrality.

That is why it feels so threatening. Because this sword cannot be used to win. It can only be endured. It does not grant authority; it demands surrender. It does not preserve institutions; it exposes what they are built to protect. It does not promise safety—only faithfulness.

The Church’s greatest temptation is not conflict, but control. And the sword exposes that temptation mercilessly. The moment we pick it up, we reveal that we never trusted God to do the dividing. We wanted to manage the outcome.

Jesus brings the sword—and then lays down His life. He wields it not by striking, but by giving himself over to its cost.

Truth cuts. And we are not in charge of where.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The sword Jesus brings is real—but the moment we try to wield it, we have already misunderstood Him.

PRAYER
God of truth, teach us to live honestly even when truth divides. Free us from the urge to control outcomes or force agreement. Give us courage to stand where Your light exposes what cannot remain unchanged, and humility to lay down every weapon we are tempted to use in Your name. Shape us by faithfulness, not fear. Amen.


Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 25: Peacock

Read John 3:19–21

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.” (2 Corinthians 4:7 NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we look closely at the sacred signs that unsettle, challenge, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 25: Peacock” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 25: Peacock. When I was a teenager, a few of my friends and I once made a very poor decision involving a farm and a peacock. From a distance, the bird was stunning—iridescent feathers catching the light, colors that seemed almost unreal, beauty that felt ornamental and harmless. It was easy to forget that this creature was not decoration. It was alive. Territorial. Alert.

The moment we crossed a line we did not realize we had crossed, the peacock charged.

What had appeared beautiful from afar became suddenly loud, aggressive, and fast. There was no malice in it—only instinct, presence, and an unmistakable refusal to retreat. We ran. The feathers did not vanish. The beauty did not disappear. But it was no longer passive. What had been admired now confronted.

That is the peacock.

In early Christian art, the peacock became a symbol of resurrection and incorruptibility. Its molting feathers and radiant display were taken as signs of eternal life, glory revealed, truth made visible. But the Church was not alone in seeing something enduring in this bird. Across the Mediterranean world—among Persian, Greco-Roman, and Hellenistic cultures—the peacock had long symbolized immortality, vigilance, royal splendor, and life resistant to decay. Christianity did not invent this symbol so much as receive it, re-reading what others associated with power or divine watchfulness through the lens of resurrection without domination, recognizing in the peacock a creature whose beauty seemed to hint at something beyond death itself.

But the peacock has always carried a tension the Church sometimes forgets.

Beauty revealed is never neutral. Truth, once visible, is no longer ornamental. Light does not simply illuminate; it exposes. As John’s Gospel makes clear, the problem is not that light comes into the world—the problem is how people respond when it does.

Some step toward it. Some recoil. Some feel threatened simply because something can no longer be hidden.

The peacock does not chase because it is cruel. It charges because it has been seen, approached, and crossed. Its display is not a performance for approval. It is a declaration of presence. The feathers say, Here I am. And for those who preferred the bird as scenery, that declaration feels like danger.

This is where the symbol turns subversive.

The phoenix tells the truth by fire. What cannot endure is burned away. What remains is no longer hidden. The peacock asks the next, more unsettling question: What do we do with the truth when it is revealed?

The Church is often comfortable with truth as long as it remains abstract—contained in symbols, creeds, or stories kept safely at a distance. But when truth becomes visible in real bodies, real lives, real voices, the reaction changes. What was once praised as beautiful becomes “too much.” What once inspired awe now provokes resistance. Not because the truth has changed.But because it can no longer be ignored.

Paul reminds us that this light shines in fragile vessels. The radiance does not belong to us. There is no glory to claim, no spectacle to manage. The power is from God alone. And that vulnerability is precisely what makes visibility so costly. To be seen is to risk misunderstanding. To be revealed is to invite reaction.

The peacock does not ask permission to display its feathers. It does not dim itself to make others comfortable. And it does not disappear when its presence unsettles the ground it stands on.

Truth revealed will always divide—not because it seeks conflict, but because it removes the option of neutrality. Light does not attack. It simply shines. And in doing so, it forces a choice.

The peacock stands in that tension. Beautiful and unyielding. Radiant and dangerous—not because it intends harm, but because it refuses to pretend it is only decoration.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Truth does not become threatening when it changes, but when it becomes visible.

PRAYER
God of light and truth, give us courage to live honestly in the open, even when that openness unsettles us or others. Teach us to receive Your light without fear, and to stand faithfully when truth is revealed. Keep us from hiding what You have made known, and from mistaking beauty for safety. Amen.


Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 24: Phoenix

Read 1 Corinthians 3:10–15

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Unless the Lord builds a house, the work of the builders is wasted. Unless the Lord protects a city, guarding it with sentries will do no good.” (Psalm 127:1 NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we look closely at the sacred signs that unsettle, challenge, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

A singed phoenix stands in the ashes before the burned ruins of a stone church at dawn, wings partially extended as smoke lingers in the early light.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 24: Phoenix” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 24: Phoenix. The phoenix is one of those symbols that feels immediately familiar, even comforting. A creature consumed by fire, only to rise again from its own ashes. For many, it has become shorthand for hope after devastation, resilience after loss, life after death. And that reading is not wrong. Fire can purify. Ashes can nourish new growth. God does bring life out of ruin.

But before we go any further, the truth must be named plainly: the phoenix is not originally a Christian symbol. It does not emerge from Scripture. It was not born from the Church. It comes from ancient pagan imagination—Egyptian and Greco-Roman worlds wrestling with death, renewal, and the longing for immortality. Christianity did not invent the phoenix. It recognized it. And that recognition itself is deeply revealing.

The early Church was not threatened by truth found outside its walls. When Christians adopted the phoenix, they were not diluting the Gospel; they were confessing something bolder—that resurrection is not a fragile idea, and that echoes of God’s truth appear long before we name them. The phoenix was never worshiped. It was re-read. Not as proof of resurrection, but as a witness to humanity’s deep intuition that death does not have the final word.

And yet, even here, the symbol refuses to remain tame.

The phoenix does not simply rise after the fire. It rises because something has been burned beyond recovery. The fire is not an unfortunate prelude to resurrection; it is the necessary judgment that makes resurrection possible. Something real is lost. Something is not restored. Something does not come back.

This is where the symbol begins to unsettle us.

Paul’s words to the church in Corinth refuse the comforting illusion that everything we build deserves to last. The fire will show if a person’s work has any value. Not intentions. Not sincerity. Not effort. What we built. Fire does not negotiate. It reveals. It does not ask whether the structure was beloved or familiar or useful once. It simply tells the truth.

Some work survives the fire. Some work does not. And Paul is unflinching: even when a person is saved, what they have built may be reduced to ash.

This is devastating language—not because it threatens salvation, but because it threatens legacy. It confronts the assumption that faithfulness and survival are the same thing. It names the possibility that entire systems, identities, and institutions may burn—not because God is cruel, but because God is honest.

The phoenix, read through this lens, is not a promise that everything will return in a shinier form. It is a confession that not everything should.

This is where the symbol presses hardest on the Church.

We are adept at resurrection talk that avoids death. We speak of renewal while quietly preserving what no longer gives life. We celebrate transformation while protecting the structures that taught us how to survive but not how to love. We cling to what once worked and call it wisdom. We guard the city with sentries, convinced that vigilance will save what faith no longer sustains.

But Scripture is mercilessly clear: unless the Lord builds the house, the work of the builders is wasted. Fire does not honor nostalgia. It does not reward endurance for its own sake. It does not coddle complacency. It does not spare what has outlived its truth.

First, it must be said plainly: the fire burns institutions. Traditions. Forms of church that learned how to persist but forgot how to repent. The phoenix does not resurrect these unchanged. It consumes them. What rises is not the old thing restored, but something else entirely—or sometimes, nothing at all.

Next, the fire is also intimate. It burns the false self we constructed to survive inside broken systems—the version of ourselves that learned when to stay quiet, when to comply, when to call compromise maturity. Resurrection here is not triumphant. It is costly. It requires letting go of who we thought we were in order to become who we can no longer avoid being.

And then there is the most unsettling truth the phoenix carries: fire does not guarantee rebirth. The myth tempts us to assume that ashes always lead somewhere hopeful. Scripture is more restrained. Fire reveals what is of God—and what is not. What is of God endures, even if only as a remnant. What is not… ends.

That is not despair. It is mercy.

Because a resurrection that refuses to let certain things die is not resurrection at all. It is preservation. And preservation is often the enemy of life.

The phoenix does not promise that everything will rise. It promises that what must die will not be spared. And in that promise—terrifying as it is—there is freedom. Freedom from carrying what was never meant to last. Freedom from confusing survival with faithfulness. Freedom to trust that God’s work does not depend on our constructions, our defenses, or our fear of loss.

Fire comes. Ashes remain. And whatever rises does so only because it can finally live truthfully.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Fire does not destroy what is faithful—it reveals what was never meant to last.

PRAYER
God of truth and mercy, meet us in the fire we fear. Give us the courage to release what no longer carries Your life, even when it once did. Burn away what is false, wasted, or built from fear, and teach us to trust You with what remains. Where something must end, grant us grace. Where something rises, grant us humility. Amen.


Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 23: Trinity Signs (Triangle, Triskele, Trefoil)

By Rev. Todd R. Lattig[i]

Read John 14:8–17, 25–27 (NLT); Matthew 28:16–20 (NLT)

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Dear brothers and sisters, I close my letter with these last words: Be joyful. Grow to maturity. Encourage each other. Live in harmony and peace. Then the God of love and peace will be with you. May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.” (2 Corinthians 13:11, 14 NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we’ll look closer at the sacred signs that shock, unsettle, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

An ancient triskele symbol formed by three distinct elements in motion—one resembling carved stone, one glowing with warm flame-like light, and one shaped from translucent wind or breath—circling together in harmony against a dark, textured background, conveying unity without uniformity and shared movement without hierarchy.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 23: Trinity Signs (Triangle, Triskele, Trefoil)” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 3: Trinity Signs (Triangle, Triskele, Trefoil). Before the Trinity became a creed, it became a casualty.

In the fourth century, Arius was exiled for refusing to say about Christ what the emerging Church demanded he say. In the sixteenth century, Michael Servetus was burned alive for challenging the dominant Trinitarian formulations of his day. These were not academic disagreements or footnotes in doctrinal history. They were moments when the Church chose coercion over communion—and justified it by invoking God.

Whatever one concludes about their theology, the outcome cannot be baptized. Exile and execution are not neutral tools. They are acts of domination. And domination, when committed in the name of the Triune God, stands in direct contradiction to what the Trinity reveals about God’s very nature.

The Trinity has always been dangerous—not because it is unclear, but because it refuses to be mastered. The moment God-language is absolutized, the moment mystery is treated as property to be defended rather than life to be entered, theology hardens into ideology. At that point, the Church no longer confesses God; it polices God. And when God’s name becomes a weapon, that weapon is no longer holy. It is an idol—fashioned by fear, baptized by certainty, and worshiped in the place of the living God.

So what is the Trinity?

It is not a container for God.
It is not a hierarchy of divine roles.
It is not a formula designed to enforce sameness.

The Trinity is God’s own self-disclosure—God choosing to reveal something fundamental about Godself. At the core of God’s being is relational diversity: three equal persons, eternally sharing life, none dominating the other, none diminished, none isolated. This is unity without uniformity—oneness without erasure, communion without coercion, harmony without hierarchy.

This is not a human invention born of philosophical anxiety. God did not become Trinity because the Church needed a doctrine. God revealed the Trinity because God’s very nature is shared life. The doctrine followed the encounter, not the other way around.

Jesus never offers a diagram of God’s inner mechanics. In John 14, he speaks instead of presence. “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.” “I will not leave you orphaned.” “The Spirit will be with you—and in you.” The Holy Spirit is not an abstract force or theological appendix. The Spirit is God’s refusal to withdraw. God abiding. God dwelling. God arriving again and again in whatever form God comes.

And in Matthew 28, the Triune name is not handed down as a concept to be memorized, but as a sending into the world. Baptize. Teach. Go. The Trinity moves outward. It draws others into its life. God is not static. God is communion in motion.

God does not need creation in order to be God. Yet God chooses not to remain distant. The Trinity is not dependent on humanity—but it is known because God turns toward humanity. Revelation, not projection. Invitation, not abstraction.

This is why the Trinity carries ethical weight. If God’s very being is unity without uniformity, then coercion in God’s name is not merely misguided—it is blasphemous. Disagreement is not the sin. Violence is. Silencing is. Erasure is. When the Church exiles, imprisons, or kills to protect doctrine, it does not defend God. It denies God’s nature. In those moments, the Church stops reflecting the Triune life and begins mirroring the Accuser it claims to resist.

The symbols associated with the Trinity quietly preach this truth. The triangle, the triskele, the trefoil—ancient forms circulating long before Christianity claimed them. They speak of movement, balance, and unity held without collapse into sameness. The early Church did not invent these signs; it recognized them. Christianity has never been homogenous, sealed, or culturally pure. God’s relational life has been glimpsed across cultures and centuries, long before councils tried to contain it.

That recognition itself is subversive. It reminds us that God has never belonged to one empire, one language, or one system of control. God’s life exceeds our borders. Always has.

Here is the unsettling truth the Trinity confronts us with: if God’s being is communion, then domination is never holy. If God’s life is shared, then fear-driven control is a lie. The Trinity does not support systems built on hierarchy and exclusion. It exposes them. It unmasks every attempt to justify cruelty in God’s name. It calls the Church back—not to certainty, but to participation in a life shaped by humility, mutuality, and love.

The Trinity is not a puzzle to be solved or a doctrine to be enforced at all costs. It is the life of God revealed. And once revealed, it leaves us with no excuse for becoming what God is not.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Unity without uniformity reflects the life of God; enforced sameness betrays it.

PRAYER
Triune God, whose life is shared and whose love refuses domination, draw us into Your communion. Free us from the fear that turns conviction into cruelty. Teach us to seek truth without destroying one another, to honor difference without erasing dignity, and to live in ways that reflect who You truly are. Make our lives a witness to Your shared, life-giving love. Amen.


Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Sacred Signs of Subversion, part 22: Butterfly

Read John 12:20–26

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“This means that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun!” (2 Corinthians 5:17 NLT)

Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we’ll look closer at the sacred signs that shock, unsettle, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.

A fog-filled old cemetery at dawn with weathered stone crosses and gravestones, where vibrant butterflies rest and take flight, symbolizing transformation, resurrection, and new life emerging from places of death.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “SACRED SIGNS OF SUBVERSION, Part 22: Butterfly” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 22: Butterfly. The butterfly has long been treated as one of Christianity’s safest symbols. It appears on Easter banners and children’s curricula, a tidy illustration of resurrection and hope. Caterpillar, cocoon, butterfly—death, burial, new life. Simple. Beautiful. Inoffensive. But that simplicity hides a far more unsettling truth, because real transformation is not gentle, and resurrection is not safe.

Jesus does not speak about new life as a painless upgrade. In John 12, when people finally come seeking Him, Jesus does not offer reassurance or clarity. Instead, He speaks of death. “Unless a kernel of wheat falls into the soil and dies, it remains alone.” This is not metaphor for improvement; it is a declaration of loss. The seed does not become more itself. It is broken open. Its previous form does not survive the process. And only through that loss does fruit emerge.

The butterfly embodies this same scandal. The caterpillar lives longer. It eats. It survives. It moves close to the ground, protected by familiarity and repetition. The caterpillar’s life is about continuation. But the butterfly’s life, once it emerges, is often brief—sometimes only days or weeks. And yet in that short span, the butterfly does what the caterpillar never could. It flies. It crosses boundaries. It pollinates. It participates in the flourishing of the world beyond itself. Its life is not measured by duration, but by vocation.

This is where the symbol becomes subversive. We instinctively assume that faithfulness means preservation. We equate blessing with longevity. We celebrate survival while quietly fearing transformation. But Jesus never promises more time. He promises fruit. He never guarantees safety. He invites participation. Resurrection is not a reward for endurance; it is a call into costly becoming.

The chrysalis is not a comfortable place. Inside it, the caterpillar’s body literally dissolves. What emerges is not a repaired version of what existed before, but something entirely new. This is why transformation feels like death. Because it is. Not annihilation, but surrender. Not punishment, but passage. And many communities—faithful, sincere, well-meaning—decide that remaining what they are feels safer than entering that in-between space where nothing looks recognizable anymore.

So they linger. They grow smaller rather than different. They preserve form rather than pursue calling. Not out of malice, but out of fear. And the butterfly does not condemn this choice—but it does expose it. It stands as a quiet witness against the belief that staying alive is the same thing as living faithfully.

Jesus names this cost plainly. “Those who love their life in this world will lose it.” The Gospel is not interested in self-preservation. It is interested in self-giving. The promise is not that nothing will be lost, but that what is lost will not be wasted. The seed dies, and the field flourishes. The caterpillar dissolves, and the world blooms.

The butterfly refuses to let the Church confuse resurrection with comfort. It reminds us that becoming may shorten what we hoped to protect, but it expands what we were created to give. Faithfulness is not clinging to what was. Faithfulness is trusting God enough to let form fall away so fruit can come.

In this way, the butterfly becomes a sacred sign of subversion. It dismantles the myth that holiness is safe, that transformation is gentle, or that resurrection leaves everything intact. It tells the harder Gospel truth: life is found not in lingering, but in letting go.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Resurrection is not about lasting longer—it is about becoming truer.

PRAYER
Transforming God, we confess how often we choose survival over surrender and familiarity over faith. Give us courage to enter the chrysalis when You call us there. Loosen our grip on what we are afraid to lose, and draw us into the life You are still bringing forth. Make us willing to become, even when becoming costs us everything. Amen.


Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Episode 57 | Advent Apocalypse

https://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-k4t3b-19fc53e

In this episode, fellow POJCasters, Todd, Sal and Blake discuss the real meaning behind Advent and how modern celebrations often miss the point. Not to mention another awesome bonus segment for all our Party On Patrons. Don’t miss this awesome episode from your fave theo party dudes!

Help the Viking Vicar, Rev. Blake, his wife Megan, and their family out as they navigate the crazy expenses of liver cancer treatment. If you are able, please give what you can to help by going to: https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-cover-expenses-for-liver-cancer-treatment

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Update Segment:

Check out Tristan Robert Lange’s poetry at tristanrobertlange.com.

You can also support his recently published poem and the Pocono Liars Club by purchasing the anthologoy, The Lies We Tell Others, here: https://a.co/d/3xzBJCn

Most Excellent Music Segment:

Blake

Sal

Todd

  • Feast Your Eyes by TragicLife on Spotify (and all other major streaming and purchasing platforms).

From the Advent Archives: Why Advent?

Read Isaiah 11:1–9

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“I heard a loud shout from the throne, saying, ‘Look, God’s home is now among God’s people! God will live with them, and they will be God’s people. God Godself will be with them.’” (Revelation 21:3, NLT)

A manger scene sits at the center of a dark, devastated landscape. Mary and Joseph cradle the infant Jesus inside a simple wooden shelter glowing with warm light. Around them, the world appears burned and ruined, with broken structures and barren trees. Above, the sky opens with fiery, apocalyptic clouds as a bright star shines at the center.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “From the Advent Archives: Why Advent?” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Advent is one of my favorite times of year. While it is true that I am not a big fan of winter or its weather, I really love the season of Advent and the great hope that it stands for. Throughout the majority of Christian history, the Church has, in one way or another, celebrated the coming Christ. With that said, Christmas (aka the coming of the Christ-child) was not always celebrated by the Church. In fact, it was quite controversial early on and, in some Christian circles, it still is.

The Church didn’t officially recognize the “feast day” of Christ’s birth (what became known as Christ’s Mass, or Christmas) until the fourth century. When we look at the Gospels themselves, only two of the four canonical Gospels (Matthew and Luke) actually account for the birth of the Christ-child. The other two canonical Gospels (Mark and John) do not mention the birth of Christ at all. Mark begins with Jesus’ baptism, and John simply states that the Word of God became flesh as Jesus (John 1:14). They clearly did not feel there was a significant reason to include the Nativity story in their accounts.

So then, why Advent? Regardless of the fact that only two of the four Gospels include the Nativity story, each of the four Gospels contains the Advent story. In fact, the entire Bible is an Advent story. Advent, of course, means “the arrival of a notable person, thing, or event.” All of Scripture points toward Advent when you really think about it. All of Scripture points toward the advent—the arrival—of Immanuel, “God with us.”

From the first humans through the Exodus, from the age of kings through the prophets, from exile through Roman occupation, from the birth of Jesus through the resurrection, from the apostles through the age in which we now live, this world is SCREAMING for the advent of God’s Kingdom—the advent of hope, healing, wholeness, justice, mercy, compassion, and grace.

Why Advent? Because we live in a broken world filled with broken people like ourselves.
Why Advent? Because we live in a world filled with social injustice.
Why Advent? Because we live in a world where people pour lighter fluid down the throats of teenagers and set them on fire.
Why Advent? Because we live in a world where a few have everything and the majority have nothing.
Why Advent? Because we all play a part in the reality of sin.
Why Advent? Because we desire justice, long for mercy, and strive to live humbly.

Unfortunately, in our longing for Advent, we often miss a critically important point: Immanuel has already come.

GOD IS WITH US.
GOD IS WITHIN US.

While we certainly await the coming of God’s Kingdom in all its fullness, and while Scripture is deeply shaped by Advent longing, it also points us to the reality of God’s presence with us now—God’s love for us and God’s Spirit within us. The question, then, isn’t Why Advent?

The question is Why wait?

What are we waiting for? God desires that we recognize God’s presence with us now. We no longer need to lie in wait. We no longer need to sit and hope for a savior to come and rescue us. That Savior has already come, has never left, and has no intention of leaving. As long as people open themselves to God, the Savior will remain present in the world.

Jesus didn’t call us to wait, but to BE AWAKE. Jesus didn’t call us into waiting—Jesus sent the disciples, and sends us, into action. Instead of waiting, actively take part in showing the world that GOD IS ALREADY HERE

that GOD IS ALREADY WITH US

that LOVE WINS.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
How are you bringing the reality of Immanuel into the world around you

PRAYER
Lord, I am your vessel of hope, healing, and wholeness. Use me as a witness to your presence among all people. Amen.


© 2012 Rev. Todd R. Lattig. All rights reserved.
First published December 12, 2014.

From the Advent Archives: Where is the Justice?

Read Romans 12:15-21

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Indeed, the LORD will give justice to his people…” (Deuteronomy 32:36a, NLT)

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “From the Advent Archives: Where Is the Justice?” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

There come times in one’s life when it is realized that an act was far less timely in the moment it was committed to memory, and this is such a time. Eleven years ago, I saw the America I knew disintegrating—falling apart before my very eyes. Truthfully, we all did. Barack Obama was still president, a very consequential president, if not for anything else other than his race. Of course, he was consequential in many other ways too, but it was his race that would prove the most eye-opening for this country.

I grew up believing we lived in an America that was largely past racism. To be honest, I also grew up in an insular, small-town white bubble. What racism was I really exposed to? Plenty. But it was hidden in jokes, in what nuts were called, and in other subtleties that sound like normalities to people not on the receiving end of them. It ALWAYS bothered me, especially when I gave in and laughed or participated to “fit in.” Thankfully, I never got into the habit of it because I always disliked it. It made me uncomfortable. Why? Because I am an outcast too, and once you’ve been outcast for ANY reason, how can you then outcast others? It happens. But not on my watch.

What you are about to read is a devotion I published on December 5, 2014, in the wake of the acquittal decision in the Ferguson, MO / Michael Brown Jr. case. Now, more than ever, we can see that where we are today is not new, but something that had been brewing under the surface—where we like to keep things hidden.


In 1999, Mel Gibson starred in Payback, a 1950s-style crime thriller directed by Brian Helgeland. I say “1950s-style” because it had Mel Gibson narrating his own story in the kind of way you’d expect to see on the classic police show Dragnet. The twist is that Gibson’s character, Porter, is not a police officer, but a petty criminal who ends up being double-crossed by his former partner-in-crime and his estranged wife.

Porter had cheated on his wife who, to get back at him, joined forces with his partner to plot against him. They shoot him (with the intent of killing him) and steal $70,000 from him—money that he, no doubt, stole from someone else.

To make a long story short—and to do so without spoiling the gritty experience that the film is—Porter sets out to pay back (hence the film’s name) those who did him wrong. He wages a bloody and intense war on his former partner, his estranged wife, and eventually on the crime syndicate protecting them. By the end of the film you can’t help but wonder what justice, if any, was done. Still, it satisfies that inner need to see the “bad guy” get his in the end. Of course, Porter is a “bad guy” getting even with other “bad guys.” This is played up in the film’s slogan: Prepare to root for the bad guy.

There are times in our life when we feel we have been wronged by our family, our friends, our neighbors, and others. In those moments, we often cannot help but feel anger and the desire to get back at such people. Even when we aren’t seeking to get back at them ourselves, we wish that something would happen to them to “teach them a lesson.” We use terms like “karma” to express our wish for fate to slap them right where it counts—and, if possible, allow us to be there to witness it. I know that even while driving down the road, I have prayed that the person who cut me off would pass a police officer and get pulled over. I am sure I am not the only one who has prayed such a prayer.

We live in a world that sees REVENGE as justice. When things don’t go our way, when life seems unjust and no one seems to care that it is, we feel justified in taking things into our own hands and exacting our own brand of justice. In Ferguson, MO, for example, many protesters turned into rioters when they discovered that no charges were going to be brought against Officer Darren Wilson. As a result, a grieving family had to witness their son’s name being frivolously used to incite riots. Store owners and community members stood helplessly as they watched their neighborhoods burn. Innocent and peaceful protesters had to endure tear gas and fear for their lives, and police officers put their lives on the line to try and keep the situation under control.

Where’s the justice in all of that?

The fact is that our own brand of “justice” is often not justice at all. Revenge is not JUSTICE. Revenge is wrong, and it solves nothing. All it does is create more victims.

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “From the Advent Archives: Where Is the Justice?” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

When I think of God’s justice, I think of a 2014 picture of an officer who, in the midst of protests in Portland, Oregon over the Michael Brown case, hugged a twelve-year-old boy who was crying because he saw the world around him falling apart. He was feeling the weight of the grand jury’s decision to acquit the officer involved in the shooting and was concerned about police brutality toward young Black kids such as himself. In response to seeing the boy crying, the officer asked him what was wrong and, when the boy told him, he asked if he could have one of the “FREE HUGS” the boy’s protest sign was advertising.

JUSTICE is LOVE. JUSTICE is MERCY. Justice is KINDNESS.

While the world around us is often UNJUST, God is calling us to LIVE JUSTLY, to LOVE MERCY, and to WALK HUMBLY with God. That doesn’t mean we sit back and let the innocent get trampled; rather, it means we peacefully and lovingly stand in solidarity with the oppressed without falling victim to the urge to GET BACK at the oppressor. LIVE JUSTLY and inspire others—through actions of peace and love—to join you in doing the same.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
“Social justice cannot be attained by violence. Violence kills what it intends to create.” – Pope John Paul II

PRAYER
Lord, help me to spread JUSTICE through peaceful actions of LOVE, MERCY, and COMPASSION. Amen.


© 2012 Rev. Todd R. Lattig. All rights reserved.
First published December 3, 2014.

From the Advent Archives: O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

Read Matthew 1:18-23

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Then Isaiah said: ‘Hear then, O house of David! Is it too little for you to weary mortals, that you weary my God also? Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.’” (Isaiah 7:13-14)

A single antique lantern glows warmly in the middle of a dark winter forest. Tall trees loom in the blue-black night, their branches bare and shadowed. Snow covers the ground, and the lantern’s golden light pools softly around it, creating a solitary beacon of warmth and hope in the cold darkness.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “From the Advent Archives: O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

It is hard to put into words the fear, anxiety, sadness, depression, and confusion that ran through most people’s minds at the close of this past Friday, December 14. By the end of the day, after watching the drama unfold on live TV, we learned that 28 people had been shot and killed at an elementary school in Connecticut. Of the 28, twenty were children between the ages of six and seven years old.

Oftentimes, in tragedies such as this, people ask, “Where is God in all of this?” After all, what kind of God would allow children to be born and grow up in a world that is seemingly as evil as this one? What kind of God would create “monsters” who go out and destroy the innocent? What kind of God would be so cold as to not intervene when the lives of the innocent are at stake?

These are all valid and good questions to ask. It is also safe to say that there really aren’t any answers that fully satisfy our need to understand how evil and God coexist. I could offer a ton of Christian clichés that sound good off the cuff, but that would only simplify something very complex. So, rather than offering easy answers to really tough questions, I will provide one of many possible ways in which we can reflect on what happened and what our response will be.

It is very easy for us to look only at where we don’t see God and miss where we *are* seeing God. For instance, we look at someone like Adam Lanza [the shooter at Sandy Hook Elementary School] and see his actions as proof of God failing to be with us. Yet we fail to see that God was with the principal who lunged at Adam and became the first to be shot and killed. God was with the teachers as they did everything they could — including covering children with their own bodies — to save their students. God was with the first responders.

God is also with those now looking at ways to address the societal issues that allow people like Adam to fall through the cracks unnoticed until it is too late. When Jesus called His disciples to care for “the least of these,” that included those who suffer from mental illness. Yet, in our society, mental illness is stigmatized, and our health care system often doesn’t provide affordable ways for people suffering from mental illness to get the kind of care (not just drugs and a locked asylum door) that they need.

The fact of the matter is that bad things do happen. People have free will and choose to do all sorts of things that God would not wish for anyone to choose. But aside from that, we still have a God who loves us, a God who is with us, a God who provides hope even in the darkest circumstances.

The Nativity story is a reminder of the hope of Emmanuel — God with us. This God came to earth and became one of us; this God put others first and sought to be present with all people regardless of their status or condition. This God was crucified by God’s own creation and resurrected back to life despite being put to death. This God is the same God who was present with the teachers, administrators, and first responders who worked desperately to save as many as possible, risking their own lives in the process. This God is the same God who is turning the media’s attention from labeling Adam “the face of evil” to examining how people like Adam have not received the care they needed.

While we cannot definitively answer why bad things like this happen — beyond the obvious realities of free will, broken systems, and human sin — we certainly can still have the hope of Emmanuel. Let us not forget that God never leaves us nor forsakes us. We can know that God is with us, and we can let God guide us to be instrumental in sparking the changes needed in our communities, the very changes that could protect other children and people from acts of evil.

Let us welcome Emmanuel into this world by seeing God’s revelation in us. We have been equipped to be the presence of God in the lives of those in need, whether they are children in distress or the unnoticed Adams slipping through the cracks. Let us be like the writer of Hebrews who confidently proclaims, “The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid” (Hebrews 13:6).

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
We need not look any further than our own hearts, and the hearts of those around us, to find God.

PRAYER
Lord, I thank You for always being present with me, and thank You for revealing Your presence in me. Let me witness to that Good News! Amen.


© 2012 Rev. Todd R. Lattig. All rights reserved.
First published December 19, 2012.

A biweekly devotional