Tag Archives: Faith and Power

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.

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 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.

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.

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).