When the Good News Took to the Streets

Mission statements are easy to admire. They sound clear and purposeful, especially when they remain safely on paper. The real test comes after the words are spoken – when life presses in and those words must be lived. Luke’s Gospel placed Jesus squarely in that tension.

When Jesus stood in the Nazareth synagogue and read from Isaiah – “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me…” – He was not offering a reflection or a general hope for the future. He was naming what He had been sent to do. Luke 4:18–19 functioned like a mission statement, a public declaration that the kingdom of God had arrived and that its arrival would be experienced as good news by the poor, the captive, the blind, and the oppressed.

Luke refused to let that declaration remain abstract. Almost immediately, the narrative moved from announcement to action. The meaning of Jesus’ words was not explained – it was embodied.  The good news hit the streets.

The Kingdom Left the Synagogue 

Luke’s storytelling was deliberate. Jesus’ reading in the synagogue named the purpose of His ministry. What followed showed how that purpose took shape in the world. Rather than unpacking Isaiah line by line, Jesus walked straight into the kinds of lives Isaiah described.

He went to places religious leaders avoided and spent time with people respectable rabbis ignored. He lingered with those whose presence threatened ritual cleanliness and social standing. In doing so, Jesus made something unmistakably clear: the kingdom He announced would not be guarded by distance. That’s why it was such good news.

In Jesus’ world, proximity carried meaning. Rabbis were careful about where they went, whom they touched, and with whom they were seen. Attention was a limited resource, reserved for those deemed worthy of instruction and investment. The margins were not places of formation; they were places of caution.

Jesus inverted that logic – a great reversal, as Eugene Peterson describes it.

Nearness as Good News

Again and again in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus’ presence became the first experience of good news for those Isaiah had named. Before anyone was healed, forgiven, or restored, they were noticed.

Jesus touched a leper.
He addressed paralytics directly.
He allowed sinful women to draw near.
He welcomed tax collectors into relationship.
He stopped for beggars that others tried to silence.

For these people, the good news was not initially that their circumstances might change. It was that God had drawn near to them at all. No contemporary rabbi would have given them sustained attention (or any attention), let alone shared table fellowship or physical touch. Their lives had trained them to expect avoidance, not engagement.

Jesus shattered that expectation.

It was the nearness of the kingdom made visible.

The Scandal of Proximity

Jesus’ nearness was not accidental, nor was it neutral. It exposed a religious imagination that had learned how to speak about God while remaining distant from the people God seemed most concerned about. Without issuing formal condemnations, Jesus’ actions challenged the assumption that holiness required separation.

He did not lower the bar of faithfulness. He revealed its true direction.

Holiness looked like proximity to suffering rather than insulation from it. Faithfulness looked like interruption rather than efficiency. Righteousness was expressed not through avoidance, but through mercy.

The kingdom did not advance by protecting boundaries, but by restoring people.

Why the Incarnation Matters Here

John’s Gospel deepened what Luke displayed. Where Luke showed us what Jesus did, John named who Jesus was. “In the beginning was the Word… and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

Jesus’ presence among the marginalized was not merely compassionate; it was incarnational – God in the flesh.

God did not redeem the world from a safe distance; He entered it fully – taking on flesh, vulnerability, hunger, fatigue, and rejection. The incarnation declared that divine holiness was not threatened by human brokenness. It moved toward it.

So when Jesus touched the unclean, God was revealing His own heart. When Jesus lingered with the overlooked, God was making Himself known. The margins were not on the edge of God’s mission; they were central to it.

The Geography of God

Luke and John converged on a startling truth: the people others avoided became the very places where God revealed Himself. The poor, the captive, the blind, and the oppressed were not afterthoughts in the kingdom of God. They were its earliest witnesses.

Jesus did not simply bring good news to the margins. His very presence declared that God had always been oriented toward them.

Mission, then, was not merely something Jesus talked about. It was something He practiced with His body, His time, and His attention. The mission statement found its truest expression in His presence.

If We Bear His Name…

If Luke 4 named Jesus’ mission and His life embodied it, the question facing His followers is unavoidable. The issue is not whether we can articulate the mission clearly. The issue is whether our presence communicates it faithfully.

Who experiences good news simply because we showed up?
Who feels seen before they are fixed?
Who encounters the reality of God not through our explanations, but through our nearness?

Jesus did not rush past the people Isaiah named. He lingered. And in that lingering, heaven brushed against earth.

The kingdom had arrived – in person.

And it still does – whenever and wherever His people choose to show up.

Full of Grace and Truth

When God moved in, He did not arrive empty-handed. He arrived with all of His fullness. 1

John wrote that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and then added a phrase that can slip past us if we’re not careful: full of grace and truth (John 1:14).

Not inclined toward one.
Not balancing the two.
Full — brimming, complete — of both.

Those words weren’t accidental. John wasn’t improvising. He was reaching back deep into Israel’s memory, pulling forward language that had always described the very heart of God.

Grace and Truth Have a History

The Greek words John used — charis (grace) and alētheia (truth) — carried weight in their own right. But they carried even more when read through the Scriptures Jesus had grown up hearing.

Throughout the Hebrew Scriptures, God’s character was described with a paired phrase: ḥesed and ʾemet — steadfast love and faithfulness. Covenant loyalty and reliability. Mercy that holds fast and truth that does not shift. 2

After Israel’s rebellion with the golden calf, when Moses asked to see God’s glory, the Lord proclaimed His own name:

“The LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love (ḥesed) and faithfulness (ʾemet).” (Exodus 34:6) 3

This was not a passing description. It was God explaining God.

The Psalms returned to it again and again:

  • “Steadfast love and faithfulness go before You” (Psalm 89:14).
  • “Steadfast love and faithfulness meet; righteousness and peace kiss each other” (Psalm 85:10).

This was relational language: ḥesed named God’s refusal to walk away. ʾemet named His utter trustworthiness.

So when John described Jesus as full of grace and truth, he was making a staggering claim: what Israel had known about God had now taken on flesh.

Grace and Truth Took on a Face

Jesus did not merely speak about grace; He embodied it.

He welcomed the unclean, shared tables with the compromised, and refused to reduce people to their worst decisions. That was ḥesed embodied — covenant love moving toward the undeserving.

But He also spoke with piercing clarity.

He named hypocrisy. He confronted self-righteousness. He exposed illusions of power and wealth. That was ʾemet — truth anchored in reality, not sentiment.

And in Him, these were never at odds.

Grace never diluted truth.
Truth never canceled grace.

When Jesus encountered the woman caught in adultery, He did not pretend sin didn’t matter — but He also refused to let condemnation have the final word. When He met Zacchaeus, grace came first — and truth followed close behind, reshaping his life from the inside out.

Jesus did not oscillate between grace and truth. He lived at the intersection of both.

Why We Pull Them Apart

We tend to pull grace and truth apart.

Some of us lean toward grace — valuing kindness, empathy, welcome — but hesitate to name what is broken or distorted. Others lean toward truth — certainty, conviction, moral seriousness — but struggle to extend mercy without conditions.

Jesus refused that split. Scripture refuses that split. God never asked Israel to choose between love and faithfulness. He revealed Himself as abounding in both.

Grace is not permissive.
Truth is not harsh.
Together, they restore.

Grace and Truth Dwelling Among Us

John said the Word dwelt among us — literally, tabernacled. The same glory that once filled the wilderness tent now walked the roads of Galilee. That meant…

To encounter Jesus was to meet steadfast love.
To listen to Jesus was to hear faithful truth.

Living Full of Grace and Truth

John was not composing a theological treatise; he wrote so we would recognize the character of God.

If Jesus was full of grace and truth, then those who follow Him were invited into that same way of being.

Not graceless truth that wounds.
Not truthless grace that avoids reality.
But love that remains steady and truth that leads to life.

Perhaps the question this text presses upon us is not Do you believe this? But where might you be resisting half of God’s character?

Where do you long for grace but avoid truth?
Where do you cling to truth but withhold grace?

When God moved in, He brought both — and entrusted that way of life to those who would bear His name.

And maybe the world, weary of distortion and suspicion, still longs to see what ḥesed and ʾemet looks like with skin on.

1 See Colossians 2

2 When Hebrew scholars translated their scriptures into Greek, ḥesed and ʾemet were translated as charis and alētheia.

3 Keep in mind that when we read LORD (all caps.), it is translated as Yahweh in the Hebrew scriptures. It’s the name God revealed to Moses when he wondered what to say once the Israelites questioned who had sent him. Yahweh effectively describes God as the one who was, who is, and who forever will be. See Exodus 3.

The Visible Expression of the Invisible God

Paul wrote with breathtaking clarity: “Christ is the visible expression of the invisible God.” (Col. 1:15, JB Phillips). Not a sketch. Not a shadow. Not a partial rendering. Jesus was the visible expression of the God no one had ever seen.

That claim did not emerge in a vacuum. It rested within Israel’s long, layered story of a God who had always made Himself known through visible expressions of His presence. The incarnation did not interrupt that story. It fulfilled it.

John began his Gospel by reaching all the way back before Genesis. “In the beginning was the Word.” The Greek word John used was logos – a term thick with meaning. Logos carried the sense of speech, reason, and self-expression. God was not merely silent power behind the cosmos; God had always been expressive. He had always spoken.

And then John stunned his readers: “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

We might say it this way: Jesus was God’s Logos made legible.

In our modern world, the word logo functions in a strikingly similar way. A company’s logo is not the company itself, but it is the visible expression of its identity, mission, and purpose. A well-designed logo makes values concrete. It takes something invisible – vision, intent, character – and renders it visible.

John suggested that Jesus did for God what a logo does for a company – except infinitely more. Jesus did not merely point toward God. He embodied Him.

God Had Always Made Himself Visible

Long before Bethlehem, God had been revealing Himself in visible ways.

When Israel emerged from slavery, God went before them as a pillar of cloud by day and fire by night. His presence was not abstract. It was luminous, directional, and protective. He guided them not by theory, but through His presence.

At Sinai, the mountain trembled. Smoke ascended. Thunder rolled. Fire crowned the summit. God’s holiness overwhelmed the senses. The people did not merely hear about God; they encountered Him as glory, sound, heat, and fear. Theophany – the visible manifestation of God – marked Israel’s story from its earliest chapters.

Later, God instructed Moses to build the tabernacle. The tabernacle became a portable sign that the God of heaven chose to dwell among His people. Glory filled the space. God localized His presence, not to limit Himself, but to make Himself known.

The same pattern continued with the temple. When Solomon dedicated the first temple, the glory of the Lord filled it so fully that the priests could not stand to minister (2 Chronicles 6:12-42). Though no walls of stone or beams of cedar could hold Him, He made His presence known within them. The temple functioned as a visible expression of divine nearness.

Yet each of these expressions carried limitations. The cloud and fire guided but did not speak. Sinai revealed holiness but created distance. The tabernacle and temple mediated presence, but only through layers – curtains, sacrifices, priesthoods.

They were real revelations, but they were not the final word.

The Logos Took on a Face

John wrote that the Word “dwelt” among us – literally, “tabernacled.” In Jesus, God did not merely revisit the tabernacle; He redefined it. The presence of God was no longer housed in fabric or stone, but in a human life.

Jesus healed with touch. He taught with stories. He revealed mercy through meals, forgiveness through proximity, authority through self-giving love. When people encountered Jesus, they encountered what God was like.

– If someone wanted to know how God treated sinners, they watched Jesus eat with them.
– If they wanted to know God’s posture toward the marginalized, they watched Jesus stop, listen, and restore.
– If they wondered what divine power looked like, they saw it kneel and wash feet.

Jesus did not merely talk about God. He showed Him.

This is why the incarnation matters so deeply. God did not finally reveal Himself through a book alone, or a building, or a system. He revealed Himself through a life. In Jesus, everything God had shown before finally came into focus. The cloud, the fire, the mountain, the tent, the temple – all pointed forward. Jesus gave them a face.

Gospel Immersion and the Discovery of God

If Jesus was the visible expression of the invisible God, then knowing God is inseparable from knowing Jesus.

This is why gospel immersion matters. Not as an academic exercise. Not as religious obligation. But as the discovery of the centrality of our faith…

The reality, the core, the import, is found in the Anointed One (Colossians 2:17b, VOICE).

We do not come to the Gospels primarily to extract principles. We come to behold a person. As we linger in the stories – watching how Jesus moved, listened, responded, withdrew, confronted, healed, and forgave – we are learning what God is like.

Gospel immersion trains our imagination. It reshapes our instincts. It reorients our assumptions about power, holiness, love, and faithfulness. Over time, Jesus becomes the lens through which we interpret God – and ourselves.

In a world still tempted to reduce God to abstraction, ideology, or utility, the Gospels insist on something better: God made Himself visible. God allowed Himself to be seen, touched, understood, misunderstood, rejected, and crucified.

And in doing so, God showed us Himself.

The invisible became visible.
The seemingly unknowable became near.
The Logos took on flesh.

And we behold His Glory.

When God Moved In

Frank Tillapaugh once told a story that has never quite let go of me.

In Unleashing the Church, he described a church struggling to figure out how to minister to trailer-court kids in their neighborhood.  As committees met to discuss various programming options, a group of Young Life leaders quietly started ministering to the kids. Rather than running programs for kids who lived in the trailer court, they chose to move into the neighborhood. They showed up at sandlots and basketball hoops, laundromats and front porches. Over time, relationships formed – not because of program strategy, but because of proximity. Presence did what programming never could.

Tillapaugh’s point was simple and unsettling: transformation often begins not with proclamation, but with incarnation.

John, in the opening of his Gospel, made a strikingly similar claim…

“And the Word became flesh and lived among us…” (John 1:14)

While many English translations render the phrase as “lived among us,” John’s language carried far greater weight. The Word did not keep a divine distance. The Word tabernacled among us.

God moved into the neighborhood.

The Word Who Pitched a Tent

The Greek verb John used – eskēnōsen – literally meant “to pitch a tent” or “to dwell in a tabernacle.” John was not being poetic for effect; he was making a strong theological claim.

For Israel, the tabernacle was the first place God’s glory took up residence among the people. It was portable, humble, and situated right in the middle of the camp. God was not distant. God traveled with them – through wilderness, uncertainty, and vulnerability.

Later came the first temple built under Solomon: permanent, majestic, and symbolically central. God’s presence was no longer housed in fabric and poles, but in stone and cedar. The second temple, rebuilt after exile, carried the same hope with far more ache – glory remembered, longed for, but never quite restored.

Across the tabernacle and temples, one theme held steady: God desired to dwell with His people. Yet access remained limited. Curtains, courts, sacrifices, and priests all served as reminders that something still stood between heaven and earth.

John was telling his readers that the long story had turned a corner. The dwelling place of God was no longer a structure. It was a person.

Glory With Skin On

John continued: “We have seen his glory.”

That word – glory – would have triggered memories of cloud and fire, of Sinai and the Holy of Holies. Glory was weighty, dangerous, and awe-inducing. It surpassed superficiality.

And yet here, glory wore skin.

It ate meals. It attended weddings. It touched lepers. It wept at gravesides. The glory that once filled sacred space now filled ordinary places. God’s presence was no longer something one traveled toward, but something that drew near.

Eugene Peterson famously paraphrased John 1:14 this way: “The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood.”

That is not a sentimental phrase. It is a kingdom announcement.

The Kingdom at Hand

When Jesus stepped into Galilee proclaiming, “The kingdom of God has come near,” he was not introducing a new idea. He was naming what had already become true.

The kingdom was “at hand” because the King was standing there.

Before Jesus preached a sermon, healed a disease, or forgave a sin, the kingdom had already arrived in embodied form. God’s reign showed up not first as instruction, but as presence.

This reframed everything!

The kingdom of God was no longer confined to sacred space or guarded by religious systems. It was now encountered wherever Jesus went. Fields became holy ground. Dinner tables became sanctuaries. Roadside conversations became moments of revelation.

Incarnation Before Instruction

This is where John 1:14 quietly challenges many of our instincts about ministry, discipleship, and witness.

We often want to start with explanation – beliefs clarified, doctrines defended, behaviors corrected. Jesus began elsewhere. He began by dwelling. By staying. By being present long enough for trust to grow.

Like those Young Life leaders in the trailer court, Jesus did not love from a distance. He crossed boundaries of comfort and respectability. He entered neighborhoods others avoided. He made himself interruptible.

The incarnation was not only theological in nature; it was fundamentally missional.

God did not shout salvation from heaven. God walked it into town.

A Dwelling That Still Continues

John’s language also carried a quiet promise forward. If God once dwelled in a tent, then a temple, and now in Jesus, where does God dwell now?

The rest of the New Testament dared to answer: among a people shaped by the same Spirit who anointed Jesus. The presence that once filled sacred space now fills human lives.

Which means the question is no longer whether God desires to dwell among us. The question is whether we are willing to dwell among others in the same way.

The kingdom comes close again and again wherever followers of Jesus resist power and prestige in favor of presence and proximity.

God moved into the neighborhood. He invites us to do the same.

The Kingdom Thesis and the Nazareth Manifesto

When Jesus stepped onto the public stage, He did not speak vaguely. His announcement was commandingly clear: “The kingdom of God is at hand.” That declaration functioned like a thesis statement – one central claim that organized everything He taught, did, and embodied.

A thesis tells you what is true and how everything else should be read. Jesus’ announcement did exactly that. God’s reign was no longer distant, deferred, or abstract. It had drawn near. From that point forward, parables, healings, interactions, forgiveness, and even rejection only made sense in light of this claim. The kingdom was not an idea to be debated; it was a reality to be encountered.

Yet a thesis alone does not explain how it will be lived out. That clarity came in the synagogue in Nazareth.

From Thesis to Mission

In his gospel, Luke deliberately placed Jesus’ synagogue moment near the beginning of His public ministry. After His baptism and wilderness testing, Jesus returned to Galilee in the power of the Spirit. When He stood to read in his home synagogue, He was handed the scroll of Isaiah. The words were familiar – long associated with Israel’s hope:

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
    because he has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
    and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” (see Isaiah 61:1-2)

Then Jesus made the claim unmistakable: “Today this Scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.”

If “the kingdom of God is at hand” functioned as Jesus’ thesis statement, Luke 4:18–19 read like His mission statement. It articulated what He had been sent to do because the kingdom had arrived.

Mission statements answer concrete questions: Who are you? What are you here to do? Who is this for? Jesus answered all three in one decisive moment.

Jesus rooted His mission in divine initiative: The Spirit of the Lord was upon Him. This was not a self-generated agenda. The same Spirit who descended at His baptism empowered His vocation. Luke made clear that the kingdom did not advance through force or spectacle, but through Spirit-empowered faithfulness.

A Mission Turned Toward the Margins

The recipients of the mission were equally clear: the poor, the captives, the blind, the oppressed. These were not vague metaphors meant to be spiritualized. In Luke’s Gospel, they appeared as real people with bodies, histories, and wounds.

Jesus brought good news to those for whom the existing religious and social systems had failed. The kingdom He announced did not bypass suffering; it moved directly toward it. God’s reign was revealed not in withdrawal from the world (think Pharisees), but in restoration within it.

Here, the thesis pressed closer. If God’s reign had truly drawn near, then faithfulness could no longer be measured by religious performance, but by renewed, restored humanity.

A Mission Made Visible

In any sustained argument, evidence matters. Jesus’ actions functioned as embodied proof of His kingdom claim. Healings, exorcisms, and forgiveness – all of his interactions – were His mission lived out.

When the blind received sight and the excluded found welcome, Jesus showed what life under God’s reign looked like. The manifesto of Luke 4:18–19 became flesh and blood. Each encounter served as a living confirmation of the kingdom’s nearness.

A Mission That Provoked Resistance

What began as admiration in Nazareth quickly turned to rage. Luke included this reversal to make a point: His mission statement, when taken seriously, disrupted settled expectations. 

Read that again and ponder a bit.

Jesus reminded His listeners that God’s saving work had often extended beyond Israel’s borders – to a widow in Zarephath and a Syrian named Naaman. The implication was unavoidable. The kingdom He announced could not be controlled, managed, or claimed as exclusive possession.

The thesis was expansive. The mission was unsettling.

By the end of the scene, the hometown crowd attempted to throw Him off a cliff. Luke was not subtle. This was the cost of bringing the kingdom near without reshaping it to fit familiar categories.

Holding Thesis and Mission Together

Separated, these two moments are easily distorted. The kingdom announcement without the mission drifts into abstraction. The mission without the kingdom collapses into activism.

Held together, they revealed Jesus’ integrated vision – that God’s reign had arrived and therefore…

  • Good news was proclaimed to the poor.
  • Captives experienced release.
  • Sight was restored.
  • The oppressed were set free.

And Today?

The temptation remains to affirm Jesus’ mission while softening His thesis. Or to confess the thesis while avoiding its implications. The Gospel allows for no such division.  Jesus’ thesis described reality according to God’s economy. His mission showed what that economy looked like when it touched the ground.

If the kingdom truly drew near in Jesus, then allegiance, imagination, and daily life must be reoriented. It is about learning to live under a different reign.

And Luke left readers – then and now – with the same lingering question…

If this was Jesus’ mission because the kingdom had arrived, what does it mean to pray, “Your kingdom come,” and actually expect an answer?

The Kingdom Has Come Near

The Kingdom Journey

As we have been discovering over the last year of blog posts, the “kingdom of God” was not a new idea initiated by Jesus. Throughout Israel’s history, God’s kingship was a central confession. The Psalms proclaimed, “The Lord reigns!” (cf. Psalms 93:1; 97:1; 99:1). God was Israel’s true King – ruling with justice, righteousness, and steadfast love (hesed).

Yet by the time Jesus appeared in Galilee, that kingdom vision felt distant. Israel had endured centuries of foreign domination – Babylonian, Persian, Greek, and now Roman. God’s people lived in their land but did not rule it. They waited for deliverance – for God to act again as He did in the Exodus, overthrow oppressors, and restore His reign among them.

The prophets kept that hope alive. Isaiah, Jeremiah, Daniel, and others spoke of a coming day when God would reign in fullness, when peace and justice would flourish, and when all nations would come to know the God of Israel. By the first century, this hope often took on political and messianic expectations. Many longed for a new Davidic king – a Messiah who would reestablish Israel’s sovereignty and throw off Rome’s yoke.

Into that setting came Jesus, saying, “The kingdom of God has come near.”

Mark’s Gospel wasted no time getting to the heart of things. After introducing John the Baptist and recounting Jesus’ baptism and temptation, Mark moves straight to the core of Jesus’ message:

“After John was put in prison, Jesus went into Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God. ‘The time has come,’ he said. ‘The kingdom of God has come near. Repent and believe the good news!’” (Mark 1:14–15)

These verses functioned as a thesis statement for Jesus’ ministry. Everything that followed – His teachings, healings, table fellowship, death, and resurrection – flowed from this announcement: The kingdom of God has come near.

Not the Kingdom They Expected

For many, Jesus’ announcement must have sounded electrifying. Was this finally the moment when God would set things right?

But as Jesus’ ministry unfolded, it became clear that the kingdom He proclaimed was not the one many expected. He spoke not of political revolt, but of transformed lives. He welcomed the poor, the outcast, the sinner, and the marginalized. He declared that the kingdom belonged to such as these.

In other words, the kingdom arrived not through might or coercion, but through mercy.

God’s reign was not being reestablished on a throne in Jerusalem but revealed in human lives yielded to His will. The divine rule came near in the person of Jesus Himself. Wherever He went, the kingdom broke in – healing the sick, forgiving sinners, restoring the broken.

Repent and Believe

Jesus’ announcement came with a summons: “Repent and believe the good news.”

Repentance (metanoia) meant more than feeling sorry for sin. It meant reorientation – a turning away from old ways of imagining God’s reign and a turning toward what God was now doing in and through Jesus.

But repent from what?

Israel was called to turn from false expectations – nationalistic hopes of deliverance by force, empty religious performance, and self-assured confidence in being God’s chosen people. The kingdom was not coming through them, but to them – and that required humility.

And so does our repentance.

To “believe the good news” was to trust that God was acting, that His reign was breaking into the world, and that life under His gracious rule was now possible.

Why It Was Good News

Mark tells us Jesus came “proclaiming the good news of God.” In the ancient world, the Greek word euangelion (good news) referred to royal announcements – a new king, a decisive victory, a turning point in history.

Jesus’ use of the word was no accident. His message was royal news: God was reclaiming His world.

But for whom was this news good?

For the poor, it meant hope.
For the captives, freedom.
For the blind, sight.
For the oppressed, liberation (see Luke 4:18–19).

For sinners and those on the margins, it meant forgiveness and restoration. In short, the kingdom was good news – very good news – for everyone who knew they needed God.

Yet it was unsettling news for those who thought they already possessed Him. The self-assured, the powerful, the religious elite – they often found Jesus’ proclamation of the kingdom threatening. The arrival of the kingdom through Him was leveling the playing field – exalting the lowly and humbling the proud.

The kingdom of God turned the world upside down (or perhaps, right side up).

The Nearness of the Kingdom

“The kingdom of God has come near.”

That nearness was not merely chronological but relational. In Jesus, God’s reign drew close – visible, tangible, embodied. He revealed what life under God’s rule looked like. On earth as in heaven.

And the nearness continues.

Where mercy triumphs over condemnation, where forgiveness replaces bitterness, where hope rises from despair, the kingdom draws near again and again. It is not something we build; it is something we receive and reflect. The kingdom is God’s reign in action, lived out through those who have repented and believed the good news – the community we call the Church.

Living in the Kingdom Today

Jesus’ first words in Mark were not abstract theology but an invitation to a present reality.

To live as citizens of the kingdom today is to trust that God’s reign is both already present and still unfolding. It means participating in His redemptive work – loving enemies, forgiving freely, serving sacrificially, and living as those blessed to be a blessing (Genesis 12).

The kingdom is not about escape from the world but the transformation of it. Jesus did not come to remove us from the earth, but to renew it – to bring heaven’s rule to bear in every corner of life. Again, think, “On earth as in heaven.”

So when Jesus said, “The time has come,” He announced more than a moment in history. He proclaimed the embodiment of God’s great restoration project – the King Himself stepping onto the scene and saying, “This is what life under God looks like.”

As Stanley Hauerwas observed, “Repent, and believe the good news is the radical proclamation that Jesus has unleashed a movement that puts in jeopardy the powers of this world, powers that gain their power from our fear of death and of one another.”1

That is good news indeed.


1Hauerwas, S., & Harrison Warren, T. (2025). Jesus changes everything : a new world made possible (C. E. Moore, Ed.). Plough.

Jesus’ Baptism

The scene at the Jordan River is one of the most beautiful and mysterious moments in all of Scripture. Jesus – thirty years old, fresh from Nazareth, with no disciples, no miracles, no sermons yet preached – stepped into the murky waters where John had been baptizing the crowds. This act seems, at first glance, unnecessary. After all, John’s baptism was a baptism of repentance. What did Jesus have to repent of? So why was He there?

The answer takes us deep into the heart of God’s redemptive story – a story of fulfillment, identification, and revelation.

Fulfillment

John’s ministry had drawn attention across Judea. People flocked to the wilderness, confessing their sins and being baptized as a sign of repentance and renewal. His message was clear and prophetic: “Prepare the way for the Lord” (Isaiah 40:3). John stood at the hinge point of history – the closing of one age and the dawning of another.

So when Jesus came to John to be baptized, Matthew tells us that John resisted: “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” (Matthew 3:14). John sensed a reversal. The greater was submitting to the lesser. The sinless One was stepping into waters meant for sinners.

But Jesus’ response mattered: “Let it be so now; it is proper for us to do this to fulfill all righteousness” (v.15).

That phrase, fulfill all righteousness, isn’t about moral perfection or rule-keeping. In the Scriptures, righteousness often refers to God’s saving action – His commitment to set things right. Or, as N.T. Wright frequently puts it, to put the world back to rights. Jesus’ baptism wasn’t a personal need; it was a divine necessity. It was His way of saying, I am fully aligned with My Father’s will, and I will walk the path before Me.

Jesus stepped into Israel’s story as its perfect representative. Just as Israel had passed through the waters of the Red Sea and then the Jordan into a new life of covenant faithfulness (Exodus 14; Joshua 3), Jesus passed through these same waters. He embodied the true Israel – obedient, faithful, and ready to inaugurate the kingdom of God.

Identification

But Jesus’ baptism wasn’t only about fulfillment but also about identification.

In choosing baptism, Jesus identified Himself with the very people who needed repentance and renewal. He stepped into the same waters as sinners – not to confess His own sin, but to stand in solidarity with theirs (and ours).

This is the Incarnation made visible. The eternal Word does not remain distant or aloof. He entered fully into human brokenness. He doesn’t shout from heaven, “Get your act together.” He stepped into the muddy Jordan and said, in effect, “I’m with you.”

John’s baptism had become a sign of repentance for those longing for forgiveness and a new beginning. By entering those waters, Jesus declared Himself to be the One who would make that forgiveness possible. Paul later captures this mystery when he writes, “God made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us” (2 Corinthians 5:21). That began in the river Jordan.

It’s easy to miss how radical that act of identification is. The Messiah – the one John had said was coming with fire and Spirit – came first with humility and submission. The very first public act of Jesus’ ministry was to align with sinners. That’s what divine love looks like.

Then Came the Revelation

As Jesus rose from the water, heaven opened. Matthew tells us, “The Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on Him. And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased’” (Matthew 3:16–17).

The moment is profoundly Trinitarian – the Son standing in the water, the Spirit descending upon Him, and the Father speaking from heaven. It’s as if the curtains of eternity were pulled back for just a moment, revealing who Jesus truly is. What began as an act of humility becomes a moment of divine affirmation.

This was no private whisper. The Father’s voice publicly announced what the world needed to know: God’s kingdom had arrived in His beloved Son. The Spirit’s descent marked Him as the anointed One – the Messiah.

Fulfillment, Identification, Revelation—For Us

What happened that day at the Jordan wasn’t just for Jesus; it was for us. In His baptism, Jesus inaugurated the kingdom breaking into human history. He fulfilled righteousness, identified with humanity, and revealed the heart of the Father.

Our own baptism carries those same echoes. When we step into the waters, we are identifying with Him – dying to the old and rising to new life. Baptism isn’t a private ritual; it’s a public declaration that we belong to the One who first stood in the river for us.

Jesus’ baptism also invites us into a deeper trust in the Father’s love. Before Jesus had preached, healed, or done anything “public,” the Father’s voice declared, “You are my beloved Son.” That same affirmation is offered to us in Christ. Before we accomplish anything, before we succeed or fail, God says, “You are my beloved child.”

In a world driven by performance, this is good news. God’s righteousness isn’t about earning approval; it’s about relationship. It’s about restoration. It’s about making all things new.

An Encouragement for 2026

The calendar has turned again. New numbers. New planners. New hopes.  And maybe a few old fears are tagging along behind them. Some of us arrive at 2026 energized, eager to build, create, and press forward. Others arrive weary, limping across the threshold, unsure how much strength we have left to give. Most of us arrive somewhere in between.

So before we rush into resolutions, goals, or carefully curated visions of a “better year,” let me offer some words of encouragement, rooted not in optimism, but in hope.  Not the thin hope that says things will probably work out, but the thick, resilient hope that has learned to trust God even when they don’t.

God is Not in a Hurry

One of the quiet lies we absorb is that urgency can equal faithfulness. That if we are not producing, achieving, or fixing something quickly, we must be failing. But Scripture consistently reveals a God who works slowly, patiently, and deeply. As digital people, we need to be reminded that we are following an analog God.

Jesus spent thirty years largely unnoticed before three years of public ministry. Seeds are planted underground long before they break the surface. Transformation happens in hidden places – hearts, habits, minds – often long before outcomes can be measured (if at all).

As we step into this new year, remember this: God is not behind schedule.  We are not late. We are not failing because the work feels unfinished.

Grace does not rush; it forms.

Faithfulness’s Long Obedience

The kingdom of God rarely announces itself with spectacle. More often, it whispers. It looks like ordinary obedience – showing up, loving people who are hard to love, forgiving when it costs us something, telling the truth when silence would be easier.

Faithfulness is profoundly countercultural in a world addicted to novelty and speed. Yet Jesus never calls his followers to be impressive. He calls them to be faithful.

In 2026, may you not feel called to do more. May you, instead, feel called to do more right things – again and again.  That counts.  That matters.  That is kingdom work.

Jesus Still Sets the Agenda

One of the great temptations of every new year is to baptize our plans and ask Jesus to bless them. But discipleship has always meant something more disruptive (and more freeing) than that.

Jesus does not simply improve our lives; he reorients them.

He invites us into a way of being human that runs counter to the anxious striving of the age. He calls us away from vengeance and toward forgiveness, away from accumulation and toward generosity, away from fear and toward trust.

As you discern the shape of 2026, ask not only “What do I want this year to look like?” but also, “What kind of person am I becoming?”  Because formation, not productivity, is the true measure of a life with God.

You Are Not Alone

If the last few years have taught us anything, it’s that isolation erodes the soul. We were not made to carry burdens alone, discern alone, or suffer alone. The Christian life has always been communal – people walking together, sometimes slowly, sometimes clumsily, always dependent on grace.

If you’re weary, name it.

If you’re carrying grief, don’t tuck it away.

If you’re unsure of what comes next, you’re not alone. God so often does his deepest work not in isolation, but in the shared space of our lives together. We need one another more than we know.

The Renewal of all Things

The Christian story is not one of escape from the world, but renewal within it. God’s promise has never been to discard creation, but to redeem it – to participate in healing what is broken and restore what has been lost.

That includes you and me, our relationships, and the places where we feel stuck, disappointed, or unsure.  Transformation rarely looks the way we expect. It often comes disguised as patience, endurance, and hope that refuses to die.

So as 2026 unfolds – with all its unknowns, challenges, and hopes – hold fast to this: God is present. God is faithful. God is at work, even when we cannot yet see it.

A Pauline Prayer for the Year Ahead

May this ancient prayer of the Apostle Paul carry you into the year ahead…

16 May He grant you out of the riches of His glory, to be strengthened and spiritually energized with power through His Spirit in your inner self, [indwelling your innermost being and personality], 17 so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through your faith. And may you, having been [deeply] rooted and [securely] grounded in love, 18 be fully capable of comprehending with all the saints (God’s people) the width and length and height and depth of His love [fully experiencing that amazing, endless love]; 19 and [that you may come] to know [practically, through personal experience] the love of Christ which far surpasses [mere] knowledge [without experience], that you may be filled up [throughout your being] to all the fullness of God [so that you may have the richest experience of God’s presence in your lives, completely filled and flooded with God Himself].  20 Now to Him who is able to [carry out His purpose and] do superabundantly more than all that we dare ask or think [infinitely beyond our greatest prayers, hopes, or dreams], according to His power that is at work within us, 21 to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations forever and ever. Amen. (Ephesians 3:16-21, AMP)

A Christmas Tradition: Barrington Bunny

A few years ago, I mentioned in a blog post Martin Bell’s short story, Barrington Bunny, from his 1983 book, The Way of the Wolf: The Gospel in New Images. Here’s the story, should you want to read it this Christmas season…

ONCE upon a time in a large forest there lived a very furry bunny.  He had one lop ear, a tiny black nose, and unusually shiny eyes.  His name was Barrington.

Barrington was not really a very handsome bunny.  He was brown and speckled and his ears didn’t stand upright.  But he could hop, and he was, as I have said, very furry.

In a way, winter is fun for bunnies.  After all, it gives them an opportunity to hop in the snow and then turn around to see where they have hopped.  So, in a way, winter was fun for Barrington.

But in another way winter made Barrington sad.  For, you see, winter marked the time when all of the animal families got together in their cozy homes to celebrate Christmas.  He could hop, and he was very furry.  But as far as Barrington knew, he was the only bunny in the forest.

When Christmas Eve finally came, Barrington did not feel like going home all by himself.  So he decided that he would hop for a while in the clearing in the center of the forest. 

Hop.  Hop.  Hippity-hop.  Barrington made tracks in the fresh snow.

Hop.  Hop.  Hippity-hop.  Then he cocked his head and looked back at the wonderful designs he had made.

“Bunnies,” he thought to himself, “can hop.  And they are very warm, too, because of how furry they are.”

(But Barrington didn’t really know whether or not this was true of all bunnies, since he had never met another bunny.)

When it got too dark to see the tracks he was making, Barrington made up his mind to go home.

On his way, however, he passed a large oak tree.  High in the branches, there was a great deal of excited chattering going on.  Barrington looked up.  It was a squirrel family!  What a marvelous time they seemed to be having.

“Hello, up there,” called Barrington.

“Hello, down there,” came the reply.

“Having a Christmas party?” asked Barrington.

“Oh, yes!” answered the squirrels.  “It’s Christmas Eve.  Everybody is having a Christmas party!”

“May I come to your party?” Said Barrington softly.

“Are you a squirrel?”

“No.”

“What are you, then?”

“A bunny.”

“A bunny?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how can you come to the party if you’re a bunny?  Bunnies can’t climb trees.”

“That’s true,” said Barrington thoughtfully.  “But I can hop and I’m very furry and warm.”

“We’re sorry,” called the squirrels.  “We don’t know anything about hopping and being furry, but we do know that in order to come to our house you have to be able to climb trees.”

“Oh, well,” said Barrington.  “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” chattered the squirrels.

And the unfortunate bunny hopped off toward his tiny house.

It was beginning to snow when Barrington reached the river.  Near the river bank was a wonderfully constructed house of sticks and mud.  Inside there was singing.

“It’s the beavers,” thought Barrington.  “Maybe they will let me come to their party.”

And so he knocked on the door.

“Who’s out there?” called a voice.

“Barrington Bunny,” he replied.

There was a long pause and then a shiny beaver head broke the water.

“Hello, Barrington,” said the beaver.

“May I come to your Christmas party?” asked Barrington.

The beaver thought for a while and then he said, “I suppose so.  Do you know how to swim?”

“No,” said Barrington, “but I can hop and I am very furry and warm.”

“Sorry,” said the beaver.  “I don’t know anything about hopping and being furry, but I do know that in order to come to our house you have to be able to swim.”

“Oh, well,” Barrington muttered, his eyes filling with tears.  “I suppose that’s true – Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” call the beaver.  And he disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

Even being furry as he was, Barrington was beginning to get cold.  And the snow was falling so hard that his tiny, bunny eyes could scarcely see what was ahead of him.

He was almost home, however, when he heard the excited squeaking of field mice beneath the ground.

“It’s a party,” thought Barrington.  And suddenly he blurted out through his tears, “Hello, field mice.  This is Barrington Bunny.  May I come to your party?”

But the wind was howling so loudly and Barrington was sobbing so much that no one heard him.

And when there was no response at all, Barrington just sat down in the snow and began to cry with all his might.

“Bunnies,” he thought, “aren’t good to anyone.  What good is it to be furry and to be able to hop if you don’t have any family on Christmas Eve?”

Barrington cried and cried.  When he stopped crying he began to bite on his bunny’s foot, but he did not move from where he was sitting in the snow.

Suddenly, Barrington was aware that he was not alone.  He looked up and strained his shiny eyes to see who was there.

To his surprise, he saw a great silver wolf.  The wolf was large and strong and his eyes flashed fire.  He was the most beautiful animal Barrington had ever seen.

For a long time, the silver wolf didn’t say anything at all.  He just stood there and looked at Barrington with those terrible eyes.

Then slowly and deliberately the wolf spoke.  “Barrington,” he asked in a gentle voice, “why are you sitting in the snow?”

“Because it’s Christmas Eve,” said Barrington, “and I don’t have any family, and bunnies aren’t any good to anyone.”

“Bunnies are, too, good,” said the wolf.  “Bunnies can hop and they are very warm.”

“What good is that?” Barrington sniffled.

“It is very good indeed,” the wolf went on, “because it is a gift that bunnies are given, a free gift that bunnies are given, a free gift with no strings attached.  And every gift that is given to anyone is given for a reason.  Someday you will see why it is good to hop and to be warm and furry.”

“But it’s Christmas,” moaned Barrington, “and I’m all alone.  I don’t have any family at all.”

“Of course you do,” replied the great silver wolf.  “All of the animals in the forest are your family.”

And then the wolf disappeared.  He simply wasn’t there.  Barrington had only blinked his eyes, and when he looked – the wolf was gone.

“All of the animals in the forest are my family,” thought Barrington.  “It’s good to be a bunny.  Bunnies can hop.  That’s a gift.”  And then he said it again.  “A gift.  A free gift.”

On into the night, Barrington worked.  First, he found the best stick that he could.  (And that was difficult because of the snow.)

Then hop.  Hop.  Hippity-hop.  To beaver’s house.  He left the stick just outside the door. 

With a note on it that read: “Here is a good stick for your house.  It is a gift.  A free gift.  No strings attached.  Signed, a member of your family.”

“It is a good thing that I can hop,” he thought, “because the snow is very deep.”

Then Barrington dug and dug.  Soon he had gathered together enough dead leaves and grass to make the squirrel’s nest warmer.  Hop.  Hop.  Hippity-hop.

He laid the grass and leaves just under the large oak tree and attached this message: “A gift.  A free gift.  From a member of your family.”

It was late when Barrington finally started home.  And what made things worse was that he knew a blizzard was beginning.

Hop.  Hop.  Hippity-hop.

Soon poor Barrington was lost.  The wind howled furiously, and it was very, very cold.  “It certainly is cold,” he said out loud.  “It’s a good thing I’m so furry.  But if I don’t find my way home pretty soon even I might freeze!”

Squeak.  Squeak. . . .

And then he saw it – a baby field mouse lost in the snow.  And the little mouse was crying.

“Hello, little mouse,” Barrington called.

“Don’t cry.  I’ll be right there.”  Hippity-hop and Barrington was beside the tiny mouse.

“I’m lost,” sobbed the little fellow.  “I’ll never find my way home, and I know I’m going to freeze.”

“You won’t freeze,” said Barrington.  “I’m a bunny and bunnies are very furry and warm. 

You stay right where you are and I’ll cover you up.”

Barrington lay on top of the little mouse and hugged him tightly.  The tiny fellow felt himself surrounded by warm fur.  He cried for a while but soon, snug and warm, he fell asleep.

Barrington had only two thoughts on that long, cold night.  First, he thought, “It’s good to be a bunny.  Bunnies are very furry and warm.”  And then, when he felt the heart of the tiny mouse beneath him beating regularly, he thought, “All of the animals in the forest are my family.”

The next morning, the field mice found their little boy, asleep in the snow, warm and snug beneath the furry carcass of a dead bunny.  Their relief and excitement was so great that they didn’t even think to question where the bunny had come from.

And as for the beavers and the squirrels, they still wonder which member of their family left the little gifts for them that Christmas Eve.

After the field mice had left, Barrington’s frozen body simply lay in the snow.  There was no sound except that of the howling wind.  And no one anywhere in the forest noticed the great silver wolf who came to stand beside that brown, lop-eared carcass.

But the wolf did come.

And he stood there.

Without moving or saying a word.

All Christmas Day.

Until it was night.

And then he disappeared into the forest.

The Visited Planet*

Once upon a time…

…a very young angel was being shown round the splendours and glories of the universes by a senior and experienced angel. To tell the truth, the little angel was beginning to be tired and a little bored. He had been shown whirling galaxies and blazing suns, infinite distances in the deathly cold of inter-stellar space, and to his mind there seemed to be an awful lot of it all.

Finally he was shown the galaxy of which our planetary system is but a small part. As the two of them drew near to the star which we call our sun and to its circling planets, the senior angel pointed to a small and rather insignificant sphere turning very slowly on its axis. It looked as dull as a dirty tennis-ball to the little angel, whose mind was filled with the size and glory of what he had seen. 

“I want you to watch that one particularly,” said the senior angel, pointing with his finger. 

“Well, it looks very small and rather dirty to me,” said the little angel. “What’s special about that one?” 

“That,” replied his senior solemnly, “is the Visited Planet.” 

“Visited?” said the little one. “You don’t mean visited by —–?

“Indeed I do. 

That ball, which I have no doubt looks to you small and insignificant and not perhaps overclean, has been visited by our young Prince of Glory.” And at these words he bowed his head reverently. 

“But how?” queried the younger one. “Do you mean that our great and glorious Prince, with all these wonders and splendours of His Creation, and millions more that I’m sure I haven’t seen yet, went down in Person to this fifth-rate little ball? Why should He do a thing like that?” 

“It isn’t for us,” said his senior a little stiffly, “to question His ‘why’s’, except that I must point out to you that He is not impressed by size and numbers, as you seem to be. But that He really went I know, and all of us in Heaven who know anything know that. As to why He became one of them – how else do you suppose could He visit them?” 

The little angel’s face wrinkled in disgust. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that He stooped so low as to become one of those creeping, crawling creatures of that floating ball?” 

“I do, and I don’t think He would like you to call them ‘creeping, crawling creatures’ in that tone of voice. For, strange as it may seem to us, He loves them. He went down to visit them to lift them up to become like Him.” 

The little angel looked blank. Such a thought was almost beyond his comprehension. 

“Close your eyes for a moment,” said the senior angel, “and we will go back in what they call Time.” 

While the little angel’s eyes were closed and the two of them moved nearer to the spinning ball, it stopped its spinning, spun backwards quite fast for a while, and then slowly resumed its usual rotation. 

“Now look!” 

And as the little angel did as he was told, there appeared here and there on the dull surface of the globe little flashes of light, some merely momentary and some persisting for quite a time. 

“Well, what am I seeing now?” queried the little angel. 

“You are watching this little world as it was some thousands of years ago,” returned his companion. 

“Every flash and glow of light that you see is something of the Father’s knowledge and wisdom breaking into the minds and hearts of people who live upon the earth. Not many people, you see, can hear His Voice or understand what He says, even though He is speaking gently and quietly to them all the time.” 

“Why are they so blind and deaf and stupid?” asked the junior angel rather crossly. 

“It is not for us to judge them. We who live in the Splendour have no idea what it is like to live in the dark. We hear the music and the Voice like the sound of many waters every day of our lives, but to them – well, there is much darkness and much noise and much distraction upon the earth. Only a few who are quiet and humble and wise hear His Voice. But watch, for in a moment you will see something truly wonderful.” 

The Earth went on turning and circling round the sun, and then quite suddenly, in the upper half of the globe, there appeared a light, tiny but so bright in its intensity that both the angels hid their eyes. 

“I think I can guess,” said the little angel in a low voice. “That was the Visit, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes, that was the Visit. The Light Himself went down there and lived among them; but in a moment, and you will be able to tell that even with your eyes closed, the light will go out.” 

“But why? Could He not bear their darkness and stupidity? Did He have to return here?” 

“No, it wasn’t that” returned the senior angel. His voice was stern and sad. “They failed to recognise Him for Who He was – or at least only a handful knew Him. For the most part they preferred their darkness to His Light, and in the end they killed Him.” 

“The fools, the crazy fools! They don’t deserve ——” 

“Neither you nor I, nor any other angel, knows why they were so foolish and so wicked. Nor can we say what they deserve or don’t deserve. But the fact remains, they killed our Prince of Glory while He was Man amongst them.”

“And that I suppose was the end? I see the whole Earth has gone black and dark. All right, I won’t judge them, but surely that is all they could expect?” 

“Wait, we are still far from the end of the story of the Visited Planet. Watch now, but be ready to cover your eyes again.” 

In utter blackness the earth turned round three times, and then there blazed with unbearable radiance a point of light. 

“What now?” asked the little angel, shielding his eyes. 

“They killed Him all right, but He conquered death. The thing most of them dread and fear all their lives He broke and conquered. He rose again, and a few of them saw Him and from then on became His utterly devoted slaves.” 

“Thank God for that,” said the little angel. 

“Amen. Open your eyes now, the dazzling light has gone. The Prince has returned to His Home of Light. But watch the Earth now.” 

As they looked, in place of the dazzling light there was a bright glow which throbbed and pulsated. And then as the Earth turned many times little points of light spread out. A few flickered and died; but for the most part the lights burned steadily, and as they continued to watch, in many parts of the globe there was a glow over many areas. 

“You see what is happening?” asked the senior angel. 

“The bright glow is the company of loyal men and women He left behind, and with His help they spread the glow and now lights begin to shine all over the Earth.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the little angel impatiently, “but how does it end? Will the little lights join up with each other? Will it all be light, as it is in Heaven?” 

His senior shook his head. “We simply do not know,” he replied. “It is in the Father’s hands. 

Sometimes it is agony to watch and sometimes it is joy unspeakable. 

The end is not yet. But now I am sure you can see why this little ball is so important. He has visited it; He is working out His Plan upon it.” 

“Yes, I see, though I don’t understand. I shall never forget that this is the Visited Planet.” 

* J.B. Phillips, 1957. New Testament Christianity