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Oneness or unity is the focus of Jesus’ prayer in the gospel lesson today. Jesus’ understanding of this oneness begins with being one with the Father. He then invites his disciples, friends, and future followers like us to join in the oneness he shares with the Father. So he says, “you in me, I in you, and they in us,” or “as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one.” In this oneness, love is always present.
While Jesus’ prayer for oneness sounds like a poem, let’s bring it down to earth from its heavenly realm. What is this oneness? How do you understand it? To sharpen our questions: What does this oneness entail in our daily lives? How do we actually become one with the triune God? I want us to imagine a choreographed dance movement to get a sense of what this oneness might look like. When I was a teenager, breakdancing was quite popular. I tried and wasn’t very good. I wasn’t stiff—but the opposite. I was too loose. It was quite challenging for me to make my movements more controlled. No robot dance for me! But there’s one dance move I still remember and can actually demonstrate. It’s the Macarena dance I learned in the 90s. Can you believe even Theodore, who is now eight years old, knows how to do it? While Theo and I were trying to dance together, we had to make sure we got the order right: which hand goes first, which direction to move, and so on. When we both agreed on the steps, we were able to dance as a team—as one. There was a sense of harmony in us. What makes this one movement in two individuals so satisfying and even joyful is that we’re not the same people, but two different agents, synchronizing in one action. There’s beauty in that. This dance analogy isn’t something new to our Christian tradition. The Church Fathers used the term perichoresis. Peri-, the prefix, means “around” as in perimeter, and chōreō means “to go” or “to come.” So together, perichoresis is “to come around”—as though choreographed, like dancing around together. The movement of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit is the divine dance in oneness. Now, let’s return to the first two questions I raised before. What does this oneness entail in our daily lives? And how do we actually become one with the triune God? One simple answer to both of these questions is: let’s do some Macarena with God. But not just the version of the Macarena we know so well—a divine version, patterned by God’s very own breath. Just as it’s important to choreograph which hand or leg moves first with my dance partner, breathing together is just as important. My dance partner and I need to communicate that we’ll also breathe in harmony—inhaling and exhaling together. We pattern our breath with the Breath of God to be one. Get used to how you’re breathing. Increase your awareness of breath. How are you breathing when you’re at peace? When you’re upset, angry, annoyed, happy, relaxed, or excited? Notice how you breathe—and go for an even keel. The more aware you are of your own breath, the more you become aware of God’s breath in you. These are the skills to master so that we can dance together in God’s presence. One thing to note: this oneness doesn’t erase your sense of self. It doesn’t negate you. You become a more skillful—or a better—version of yourself out of the many selves in you. The kind of oneness where you no longer exist is uniformity—or to put it more explicitly, spiritual fascism, in which you do not matter. The divine oneness is beautiful because it dances in harmony. Only in that mutual indwelling—only through the act of love, amor fati—do we become fully who we are meant to be in the eyes of God. So, shall we dance? Last Sunday we spoke of heaven, and today, once again, the vision returns—carried to us through the words of the Book of Revelation.
St. John writes: “I saw a new heaven and a new earth... I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God.” As we listen to his vision, it’s easy—almost inevitable—to imagine a distant, shining place, set somewhere beyond our reach. It sounds like something out there, somewhere else, waiting for us. I can’t help but think of Plato’s Idea—the true reality, the perfect world beyond this one, where shadows fall short and nothing here is ever quite enough. And so, quietly, Dissatisfaction creeps in: the sense that this place is never enough, that we are trapped in a cave of lesser things, forever longing for a sky beyond our reach. But again and again, our faith insists otherwise. Christian hope is not a hope for another world alone—it is a hope for this one, made new. In this season of Easter, we remember: the scandal of resurrection is not absence, but presence disguised in absence. Christ stands in the garden—and his friends do not recognize him. He walks on the road to Emmaus—and they do not see. He appears in the locked room—and yet their hearts are slow. Resurrection is not what we expect; it never was. Without new eyes, even angels will ask us, as they asked at the empty tomb, "Why do you seek the living among the dead?" So, let’s be even bolder: St. John’s vision is not a map to somewhere else. It is a call to see, here and now, a new heaven, a new earth, a new city descending into this life. But to see it, we must first lose the eyes we have. Like Paul on the Damascus road, we must let the old vision fall away, like scales slipping from our sight. We close our eyes in stillness, so that when they open again, they are new. Through silent prayer, through the slow work of contemplation, we let the mind settle, the waters clear. Only then, as the noise quiets, can we begin to see: both the mind itself and the world shimmering through it. This seeing, this change, is not sudden. It is not a blaze of light, but the steady turning of a seed in the soil. And here I must thank Amy A., who reminds us: change is not a leap but a growth. Deeper, wider, unfolding in ways we do not always notice, but which, in time, remake the heart. In this way, St. John’s vision becomes not a promise for later, but a horizon we walk toward now. As we grow, as we open our eyes, as we love and labor and pray, we hear even now the voice from the throne saying: "See, I am making all things new." The Book of Revelation is filled with the visions of St. John, the beloved friend of Jesus. I first became curious about Revelation after watching the 1976 movie The Omen. In that movie, they reference Revelation 13:18: “This calls for wisdom: let anyone with understanding calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a person. Its number is six hundred sixty-six.”
I still remember reading that verse with a mix of fear and excitement when I was about ten years old — imagining the ominous mark of the beast and signs of the end times. But today’s passage from Revelation gives us a very different vision. Here, St. John sees a "great multitude" from every nation, clothed in white robes, standing before God's throne and the Lamb. They serve God day and night, sheltered, fed, and comforted. This is one of the Bible’s most vivid and hopeful depictions of heaven. This is why this passage is often chosen for funeral liturgies, especially the beautiful promise: “The Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd… and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” Now, I want to ask you a question to help you reflect more deeply: Keeping in mind St. John’s vision — interpreted as a glimpse of heaven and the afterlife — how do you feel about standing before the throne of God, worshiping day and night? Here are four possible responses:
If you chose the first one, wonderful. If you find yourself wavering between the second and third, you may end up with the fourth — and I think that's wise. Because before we judge, we need to clarify what "worship" really means. In fact, worship can mean different things depending on the context. In our Anglican tradition — imagine St. Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue — worship is shaped by a soaring Gothic setting, a magnificent organ, and the angelic voices of a boy choir. In contrast, if you think of a Hillsong service (originally in Australia), worship looks and feels like a vibrant rock concert — with guitars, drums, lights, and a sea of raised hands. So again — are you excited about worshiping day and night? If you picked the first choice, you're probably still nodding. If you’re not so sure, you might still be asking: Can worship be different? And the answer is yes. In Revelation 7, the word used for worship is not simply singing songs or bowing down. The Greek word is λατρεύω (latreuō) — meaning to serve like priests in a temple. In St. John’s vision, all the redeemed are priests. You are doing what I’m doing — standing before God, actively serving with your whole being. This changes everything. Heaven isn’t an endless church service you have to endure. It’s life lived fully in the presence of God — joyful, active, priestly. And it’s not just about "someday after death." Let’s be honest: who really knows what heaven will be like? Instead, the call is for us to live now as priests wherever God places us. You already wear a white robe — spiritually speaking — washed in the blood of the Lamb. You are already marked by the end of scapegoating and blame — because Jesus, the final scapegoat, broke that cycle once and for all. You are called to embody the presence of God with your physical body — here, today, in this world. For Peter, it must have felt like a dream—one of those dreams so vivid and full of wonder that waking up from it feels like a cruel joke. The years of walking beside the man from Nazareth, the teachings, the miracles—it all seemed like a heroic fairytale. And yet, the fairytale had crumbled into a nightmare. The man he had sworn to follow, whom he had called Messiah, had been brutally executed. Peter had denied him, not once, not twice, but three times. The weight of failure pressed heavy upon him.
“What was I thinking?” he must have asked himself. “I was like a child pretending to be someone special. He called me Peter, the Rock. But I was no rock. When the storm came, I crumbled into sand. I should have known better—I am just a fisherman.” And so, Peter retreats into the familiar. “I am going fishing,” he says. He is back on his boat, back to the old life, the old self. But this return is not resurrection; it is regression. Peter without Jesus is just Simon again. Standing on the deck, scanning the waters for a promising spot, memories stir. He remembers another time, another boat, another night of empty nets. He remembers when Jesus stepped into his vessel, turned his world upside down, and filled his nets to breaking. And then, as if summoned from the depths of his heart, a whisper: “Cast the net to the right side of the boat.” Something stirs in him. An ember glows in the ashes of his soul. He obeys. The net, barren moments ago, suddenly teems with life—large fish, one hundred and fifty-three of them. The weight of the catch is nothing compared to the weight lifting from his heart. He knows. It is the risen Christ. Peter does not hesitate. He wraps himself in his cloak, as if clothing himself anew, and plunges into the sea. The water swallows him whole, but he is not drowning—he is being reborn. He rises, dripping, breathless, alive. On the shore, the resurrection waits, a charcoal fire crackling beside. The fire—another memory. Another fire, another night, the scent of smoke mingled with shame. Three times he denied; three times the rooster cried. But now, around this fire, another threefold calling. “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” “Feed my lambs.” Again. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” “Tend my sheep.” Once more. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” And with each “Yes,” the cracks in Peter's heart begin to mend. With each answer, the weight of denial is lifted. With each confession of love, the breath of resurrection fills his lungs. The Simon of shame is no more. The Peter of grace stands in his place. Once, Peter fell beneath the waves of fear. Now, he walks upon the waters of mercy. Once, he sank into despair. Now, he rises with the dawn of redemption. As Jesus is risen, so too is Simon Peter. Does seeing the risen Christ guarantee belief in the resurrection? What about touching? For the disciples, these seemed to be the necessary conditions for faith. Most of them believed upon seeing him, but Thomas needed more—he insisted on touching Christ’s wounds before he would believe:
"Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe." Now, we find ourselves in a position where neither seeing nor touching is possible. But we are not alone in this. For over 2,000 years, Christians have believed in the resurrection without the physical evidence available to the first disciples. This raises a fundamental question: What does it mean to believe in the resurrection? It’s important to note that believing in something is different from merely believing it to be true. We can believe that an apple falls from a tree and accept gravity as the explanation, but we don’t believe in gravity—we acknowledge it as a fact. To believe in something, however, implies trust, faith, and a transformative relationship. The resurrection, then, is not an event to be proven but a reality to be lived. It is not about affirming a historical fact but about embodying its power. Just as the Word became flesh in the incarnation, the resurrection becomes flesh when it takes root in our lives. Consider how words take form in action: when you tell yourself to sit in silence, the word "sit" is embodied in your movement. Similarly, resurrection faith is not just acknowledged but lived—it is the movement from despair to hope, from failure to renewed effort, from sorrow to joy. The resurrection is not just about what happened to Jesus; it is about what continues to happen in us. It is the transformation from closed doors to open ones, from fear to peace. Reflect on how the resurrection takes shape within you. What in your life needs to rise? Where do you need to embody hope, renewal, and new life? Breathe in the very Breath of resurrection, and let it bring you from death to life. The resurrection is the final form of the incarnation—the Word made flesh, transcending life and death, and dwelling within us. Cross on Jesus points, To suffering I cling to. Empty cross awaits. Jesus, on the cross, Asks why, with no true answer. Empty tomb echoes. In the gospel lesson on this Easter Day, the women at the empty tomb are confronted with a profound lesson in perception and remembrance. As they seek the body of Jesus in the tomb, they are met by two messengers who challenge their understanding: "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen." This question serves as the first lesson—where one looks determines what one finds. The women were searching for Jesus in the wrong place, not because they were misguided, but because they had not yet grasped the reality of resurrection. If Jesus were dead, then the tomb would be the logical place to find him. But if he was alive, then he must be sought elsewhere. This lesson challenges us to examine where we search for connection, hope, purpose, and meaning in life. Are we looking under the lamp where we can see, or where what we seek truly is?
The second lesson follows naturally from the first. The angels not only correct the women’s search but also direct them to where the risen Christ can be found: "Remember how he told you…" It is significant that they do not say, "Remember what he told you," but rather, "how he told you." This distinction draws our attention not only to the content of Jesus’ message but to the manner in which he spoke it. The content is clear: "The Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, be crucified, and on the third day rise again." Yet the angels call the women to recall not only these words but the breath with which they were spoken. Plato once said, "What you teach is not as important as how you teach it." Jesus did not merely impart knowledge; he communicated life itself. His breath, his very way of speaking, carried the essence of his teaching. To grasp this point fully, we must consider two pivotal moments in the Gospel narrative: Jesus’ final breath on the cross and his first breath as the risen Christ. In Luke 23, at the moment of his death, Jesus cries out, "Father, into your hands, I commit my breath." This is not merely an exhalation of life but his practice of committing his breath to the Breath of God within. Then, in John 20, when the risen Christ appears to his disciples, he breathes on them and says, "Receive the Holy Spirit"—or, put another way, "Receive the Breath of God." Here we see that the breath Jesus entrusted to the Father at his death is returned as the breath of resurrection. The "how" of Jesus’ message is revealed in this breath—a breath that carries the words of resurrection and transforms those who receive it. The women at the tomb are invited into this living breath, as are all who hear the Easter proclamation. This breath is not confined to the past but is carried forward, blown across generations, sustaining the breath of Easter in every time and place. Thus, the resurrection is not merely an event to be remembered but a reality to be breathed in. The message of the angels calls us to seek the risen Christ not in the tombs of our assumptions but in the living breath of his presence through our own breath. It invites us to inhale the breath of resurrection and exhale it into the world, carrying forth the breath that still speaks life today. The question remains: where are we looking for the living, and how are we breathing in the spirit of resurrection? On this Easter Day, I share the beautiful poem by Malcolm Guite titled “God’s breath in man returning to his birth”: Breathe in and in that breathing be created, Wake from the dust, be conscious, and inhale, Fresh from the Word and Light of God, delighted, You find you have become a living soul. But soon you must breathe out. What’s to be done? Who will be with you then? And will you dare To trust the breath of life back to the one Who breathed it into you? Christ comes to share Your letting go; you hear him sigh and say Father into your hands receive my spirit And find that he has opened up the way For you as well. He takes your breath to bear it Deep into heaven with him in his death, That you might be reborn with every breath. The gospel lesson presents a scene of immense turbulence, where the world around Jesus is stirred up—by fear, by anger, by confusion. He is captured, put on trial, and executed, yet in the midst of this upheaval, he remains unwaveringly serene. This contrast between the chaos surrounding him and his internal stillness invites us to reflect on the source of his equanimity and the profound message embedded in his final words: "Father, into your hands, I commend my spirit." Or it can be translated as: “Father, into your hands, I commit my breath.”
From the beginning of this passage, we see Jesus accused by the religious authorities. Their charge against him is not merely legal but existential—he is stirring up the people, unsettling the status quo. His message has always centered on the inner presence of God, the kingdom not confined to a temple or an institution, but living and breathing within everyone. This radical inclusivity threatens the authorities, who see their divine privilege slipping away. The very breath of God, the very spirit they claim to control, is already present in the hearts of the people. Jesus does not need to stir up rebellion; his mere presence, his truth, is enough to upend the order of things. Pilate, too, is stirred up. He hesitates, reluctant to condemn Jesus. But the religious leaders push harder, their anger boiling over into an unrelenting demand for crucifixion. Herod, who had been at odds with Pilate, is drawn into the drama, and hostility between the two is stirred up so much that they become friends. The crowd, once jubilant in their praise of Jesus as he entered Jerusalem, is stirred up to the point that they turn against him. "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord" shifts into "Crucify him!"—a chilling reality that reveals how easily the masses can be swayed. Even individuals caught on the margins of this event are shaken. Simon of Cyrene, suddenly pressed into service, carries the cross of Jesus—a moment that irrevocably stirs up his life. The two criminals crucified alongside Jesus experience their own reckoning. One remains defiant, unrepentant, refusing to acknowledge his guilt. The other, stirred to honesty, sees the truth of his condition and the innocence of Jesus. The fabric of the temple itself is shaken, the curtain torn in two, symbolizing a rupture in the religious order. And in the final moment, a Roman centurion, a representative of the empire that put Jesus to death, is moved to recognize something profound: "Truly, this man was innocent." Through all this, Jesus remains composed, his spirit unshaken. He does not lash out, does not defend himself, does not resist. What allows him to sustain such serenity? The answer is found in his final words: "Father, into your hands, I commit my breath." In the act of surrendering his breath, he unites himself completely with the breath of God. His last breath is not a loss but a return, a communion with the divine presence that has always been within him. T. S. Eliot captures this mystery of surrender in Four Quartets: "I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting." Jesus' stillness is not resignation but a trust deeper than circumstance. His surrender is not despair but a profound waiting in God—faith beyond hope, love beyond control. In his breath, given over to God, he reveals that peace is not found in avoiding suffering but in meeting it with a heart utterly open to the divine. This paradox—the strength of surrender—is echoed in Rainer Maria Rilke’s Book of Hours: "Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. Don’t let yourself lose me.” Jesus does not resist the suffering that befalls him, yet in that seeming passivity, he demonstrates the deepest form of strength. His stillness is an openness, a refusal to turn away from the pain of the world, and in that act, he transforms suffering into redemption. Our own lives are often stirred up—by personal trials, by the shifting tides of society, by the unpredictability of human relationships. Fear and anxiety can rise swiftly, threatening our sense of peace. In these moments, we are invited to follow the way of Jesus, to breathe deeply and surrender: "Into your hands, I commit my spirit." To entrust our breath, our very being, to the very Breath that sustains us. In doing so, we find not passivity, but the deepest kind of strength—the strength that allows us to remain still amid the storm, to become peace in a world desperate for it. Remember the breath. Remember the breath of Jesus. It will lead us to the breath of the resurrected Christ: “…he breathed on them [disciples] and said, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.’” Remember the Breath of God. |
Paul"...life up your love to that cloud [of unknowing]...let God draw your love up to that cloud...through the help of his grace, to forget every other thing." Archives
April 2025
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