They’d walked far together, the dust of the Galilean roads caked into their sandals and skin, when Jesus turned and asked a question that still echoes like thunder through the centuries: “Who do you say I am?” It wasn’t a trap, it was the kind of question that opens a soul like a window to the wind. Matthew 16:13-19

Peter, ever impulsive, answered before anyone else could: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” And in that breathless moment, something in the atmosphere shifted. Jesus didn’t just affirm him, he blessed him. Not because Peter had figured it out like a riddle, but because the truth had been revealed to him. A flash of divine light in a fisherman’s heart. 

And then Jesus gave Peter a new identity. No longer just Simon, but Petros, rock. Solid, rough-edged, reliable. The kind of stone you could build something enduring on. The Church wasn’t going to rise from power or perfection, but from this: an honest confession from a flawed man who dared to say, “I believe.” 

What’s astonishing is that Jesus entrusted these ordinary men, Peter most of all, with keys to something vast and sacred. Not keys to lock others out, but to open doors. To loose love into a world bound by fear. To bind themselves to justice, to mercy, to the relentless hope that heaven’s ways can touch earth. 

We may not hold physical keys or stand on literal rocks, but we’re heirs to that same question. Who do you say I am? It’s asked not in temples or cathedrals, but in kitchen sinks and crowded trains, in whispered prayers and fractured friendships. 

And our answer, spoken not just in words, but in how we live, still has the power to shape the world. 

Peace lingers in the air after Pentecost, like the last notes of a song that refuses to fade, followed closely by Trinity Sunday, not a puzzle to be solved but a mystery to inhabit. In Romans 5:1–5, Paul doesn’t outline the Trinity with neat precision, he simply invites us into the flow of grace, the dance of divine love.

We have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, he writes, like someone who knows the ache of striving and the relief of being held. Through Jesus, we’re drawn into the life of God, not as spectators, but participants. This isn’t theory, it’s encounter. It’s the Spirit pouring love into our hearts like warm rain into cracked soil.

We often think of the Trinity as a doctrine, but Paul shows us a relationship. The Father, the Son, the Spirit, distinct yet united in purpose, moving toward us in love. The Father initiates, the Son reconciles, and the Spirit indwells. And somehow, this divine communion becomes the ground we stand on, the grace in which we now live.

Paul doesn’t promise an easy path. Suffering is real, but hope is too. And it’s not a vague, wishful kind of hope. It’s a hope forged in the fire of endurance, tested by waiting, and anchored in love that doesn’t disappoint. That’s the Spirit’s quiet work; reminding us that we’re not alone, that love surrounds us, and that grace isn’t earned but given.

On this Trinity Sunday, maybe we don’t need to grasp it all. Maybe it’s enough to be caught up in the mystery; to feel the peace of the Father, the welcome of the Son, and the presence of the Spirit. To rest in the truth that God is love, and love has made its home with us.

The wind came first, wild and unexpected, like breath catching in the throat before tears fall or laughter bursts free. It swept through the house where they waited, not knowing quite what they were waiting for. And then came fire. Not the kind that destroys, but the kind that purifies, illuminates, ignites. Resting on each of them like a touch that said: you, yes you too. That’s how it began.

Pentecost always takes us by surprise. It doesn’t follow our rules. It doesn’t wait politely for permission. It arrives with power and presence, inviting chaos, courage and change. The Spirit doesn’t stay locked in sanctuaries or whispered prayers. It spills out, into the streets, into different tongues, into messy, marvellous humanity.

Some mocked, of course. They always do. “They’ve had too much wine,” they said, shaking their heads. But Peter, who not long before had denied even knowing Jesus, now stood tall. Not with arrogance, but with clarity. This is what the prophet Joel had said would happen: that God would pour out his Spirit on all people, that sons and daughters would prophesy, that young men would see visions and old men dream dreams. Even slaves, both men and women, would be filled with the Spirit, and they too would speak with heaven’s authority.

It’s tempting to domesticate Pentecost, to turn the Spirit into a gentle breeze or a polite nod to diversity. But Acts 2 refuses that. This is no quiet moment. This is revolution, resurrection, revelation. It’s the promise that no one is left out and nothing will be the same.

And maybe that’s what we long for, deep down, to be set alight, to speak and be heard, to see visions that lift us out of the grey. Not to escape the world, but to love it better, bolder, truer.

So come, Holy Spirit. Not just for them, back then, but for us, right now. In our confusion, in our waiting, in our small upper rooms and our crowded streets. Come with wind. Come with fire. Come with the language of love that everyone can understand.

Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on us, and make us brave with love.

After Jesus’ Ascension, the disciples faced the task of replacing Judas Iscariot. In Acts 1:15–17, 21–26, they chose two men, Joseph called Barsabbas and Matthias, then prayed and cast lots, and the lot fell to Matthias. He was added to the eleven apostles, but interestingly, this is the last time Scripture mentions him. There’s no record of his ministry or influence in the early church.

This raises the question: was choosing Matthias truly God’s will, or a well-intended human decision? While casting lots was an accepted practice at the time for discerning God’s will, perhaps this was an instance of acting too soon, of moving ahead of God’s timing. The apostles prayed, yes, but they also acted before the Holy Spirit had come at Pentecost. Did they mistake activity for obedience?

As the story unfolds in Acts, it becomes clear that God had someone else in mind, Saul of Tarsus. A fierce persecutor of Christians, Saul was completely outside the disciples’ consideration. Yet in Acts 9:1–19, God stops him on the road to Damascus, blinds him, transforms him, and sets him on a path to become Paul, the apostle to the Gentiles.

Paul became the dominant voice in the early church. His letters make up a significant portion of the New Testament. The Life Application Bible even notes that no one, apart from Jesus, shaped Christianity more than Paul. His passion, once used against the church, was redirected for the gospel. Clearly, God’s plan was far greater than what the disciples could have imagined.

This story highlights how easy it is to make ‘Matthias-type’ decisions, rushed, reactive choices that may seem spiritual but aren’t fully surrendered to God’s timing or Spirit. How often do we make decisions out of pressure, impatience, or a need to check a box, then ask God to bless what we’ve already chosen?

Yet God’s timing is perfect. Sometimes the best thing we can do is wait, pray, and live in the tension of not knowing. God often works in the unlikely, the unseen, and the slow. He chose Paul when no one else would have, reminding us that his plans surpass human logic.

Still, we shouldn’t assume Matthias had no purpose. Just because Scripture doesn’t record his story doesn’t mean God didn’t use him. Many faithful servants throughout history have gone unnamed, but they’ve played vital roles in God’s kingdom. Not everyone is called to be a Paul, but all are called to be faithful.

Whether we feel like a Matthias or a Paul, the invitation is the same: to seek God’s will, to wait when needed, and to trust that he has a purpose for each of us. Even when our role seems small or hidden, God sees it, and uses it, for his glory.

In one of the final visions recorded in Revelation, John is shown a glimpse of the world as it will be when God’s work of redemption is complete. The old world vanishes and John sees something completely new, a new heaven and a new earth. The first ones are gone. Even the sea, often a symbol of chaos and distance, is no longer there. Then, coming down like a beautiful bride, a new Jerusalem appears, shining with the closeness of God. (Revelation 21:1-6).

This isn’t just a new scene, it’s redemption brought into full view. A loud voice declares, Look! God now lives with his people. Not visiting from time to time, not hidden in mystery, but living with us. As he once walked in the garden, he will walk with us again, no barrier, no distance, just face to face.

What follows is full of kindness. The one on the throne isn’t giving commands, he’s gently wiping away tears like a father who’s seen every hurt. And he doesn’t just comfort, he removes the reason for pain. Death will be gone. So will mourning, crying, and suffering. All of that belonged to the old world, and it’s over. There’ll be no sorrow in eternity. Heaven isn’t only gold and beauty; it’s a place where grief no longer exists.

Then comes a bold promise: I am making everything new! A promise so certain it’s written down, backed by the one whose word is always true. And maybe the most tender line of all: To the thirsty I will give water without cost from the spring of life. He knows our thirst, the deep, quiet ache that nothing else can reach, and he offers himself freely. No effort to earn it, no price to pay – just grace, poured out for the weary.

This is the hope that holds us steady. The story won’t end in ruin, but in glory. Not in loss, but in the joy of his presence. He’s the beginning and the end. And in him, we find our home.

See also: The Book of Revelation

Revelation 7:9–17 offers a moment of deep hope and comfort amid the book’s intense scenes of judgment. As an interlude between the sixth and seventh seals, it reveals the divine purpose behind suffering and a promise of final rest for the faithful. John sees a vast, countless multitude from every nation, tribe, and language, clothed in white and standing before the throne and the Lamb. This gathering represents a redeemed, worshipping humanity, purified by Christ’s sacrifice and preserved through trial. Their white robes, made clean by the blood of the Lamb, embody the paradox of grace, life through death, purity through sacrifice.

This multitude proclaims, Salvation belongs to our God…and to the Lamb! Their worship isn’t ritualistic but heartfelt, answered by a sevenfold doxology from the angels and elders. It’s the natural response of seeing God as he is, majestic, merciful, and worthy. The repeated “Amen” frames the praise, affirming its truth and finality.

When one of the elders asks John who these people are, the answer reveals their journey: they are coming out of the great tribulation, having endured suffering, perhaps even martyrdom. The Greek verb “coming out” suggests a continuous gathering, believers being saved amid trials. This reflects not abstract theology but lived experience, relevant to the early Church and all who suffer for their faith.

Their reward is described in intimate terms. They serve before God’s throne, and he “shelters” them, evoking the tabernacle, where God dwelt among his people. The vision fulfills the promise that God would not remain distant but live among his own, offering not just protection but presence.

This care echoes Psalm 23. Just as the Lord is the shepherd who leads through the valley of death, so now the Lamb becomes the Shepherd who guides to springs of living water. Hunger, thirst, and suffering are gone. The valley has been left behind; the flock is home. Most tenderly, God will wipe away every tear, a personal, final act of healing.

Jesus’ words in John 10 confirm this hope: My sheep hear My voice…I give them eternal life, and no one will snatch them out of my hand. Revelation 7 fulfills that promise. The Shepherd knows his sheep, leads them through tribulation, and brings them into eternal joy. The Lamb still calls, and his hands still hold.

John 21:1–19 presents a deeply intimate and restorative encounter between the resurrected Jesus and his disciples, particularly Peter, by the Sea of Tiberias. This passage serves as both a continuation of the resurrection narrative and a profound moment of reconciliation and commissioning.

The chapter begins with seven of the disciples, Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, James and John (the sons of Zebedee), and two others, returning to their old profession of fishing. Peter, perhaps uncertain about the future or struggling with guilt after denying Jesus, takes the initiative. They fish all night but catch nothing, echoing a similar event from earlier in Jesus’ ministry (Luke 5). At dawn, Jesus appears on the shore, though they don’t recognize him at first. He calls out to them, asking if they’ve caught any fish, and when they say no, he instructs them to cast their net on the right side of the boat. They obey and suddenly the net fills with fish, an abundance too great to ignore.

It’s John who first realises, “It’s the Lord!” and tells Peter, who immediately dives into the sea to swim to Jesus. The others follow in the boat, dragging the full net. When they come ashore, they find a charcoal fire prepared, with fish and bread already laid out. Jesus invites them to bring some of their catch and share breakfast with him. He breaks the bread and gives it to them, just as he’d done at the feeding of the multitude and during the Last Supper. This quiet, tender moment reveals the character of the risen Christ; not distant or ethereal, but present, nurturing, and generous.

After the meal, Jesus turns to Peter in a personal exchange that mirrors Peter’s threefold denial. Jesus asks him three times, “Do you love me?” Each time Peter affirms his love, increasingly grieved by the repetition. With each response, Jesus commissions him: “Feed my lambs,” “Tend my sheep,” and “Feed my sheep.” This isn’t only a reinstatement of Peter’s role but a deep healing of his failure. The triple affirmation reestablishes Peter not just as forgiven, but as a trusted shepherd of Jesus’ followers.

The passage concludes with Jesus predicting Peter’s future martyrdom, using the imagery of being led where he does not want to go, an indication of the cost of discipleship. He finishes with the same words he used at the beginning of Peter’s journey: “Follow Me.”

This scene is rich with symbolism; nets bursting with fish, the charcoal fire recalling Peter’s denial, and the shared meal speaking of communion and fellowship. More than just a narrative, it’s a portrayal of the grace of Christ. He meets his followers in their confusion, provides for them, restores them, and calls them again into service. For Peter, and for every disciple, it’s a reminder that failure isn’t the end, and that love for Christ is the foundation of true leadership and mission.

Note: there’s actually a deeper meaning in the threefold commission, but that’s for another time.