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.

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).