Resurrection

There is a distinction we rarely make, yet it changes everything once seen clearly: the difference between events and their meaning. Events unfold in the world according to causes. They happen as they must. But meaning does not reside inside those events in any obvious, built-in way. Meaning belongs to another dimension of our experience—a dimension we engage, interpret, and live within.

The modern imagination, even when clothed in religious language, is deeply forensic. It seeks proof, continuity, traceable material identity. Nowhere is this more evident than in the common interpretation of the resurrection of Jesus Christ, where the retained wounds—those of nails and spear—are treated as decisive evidence: proof that the very same body that suffered has been restored to life. The logic appears simple, almost irresistible: the wounds authenticate continuity.

And yet, upon closer examination, this “forensic resurrection” collapses under its own weight.

There are few statements in the New Testament more unsettling—and more misunderstood—than the words recorded in the Gospel of John:

“This he said to show by what kind of death he would glorify God.” (John 21:19)

At first glance, the meaning appears simple. Saint Peter will die as a martyr, and somehow this death will glorify God. Yet the simplicity is deceptive. For if we pause even briefly, a profound difficulty emerges:

Where is the glory in martyrdom?

Rereading John 21:20–23 in Light of the Resurrection through Relocation

Among the many enigmatic passages in the Gospel narrative, few are as puzzling as the brief exchange recorded in John 21:20–23. The scene takes place after the resurrection appearance by the Sea of Tiberias, immediately following Jesus’ solemn conversation with Peter about his future. In that exchange Jesus foretells that Peter will one day glorify God through a form of death traditionally understood as martyrdom. He concludes with the command: “Follow me.”

When Peter heard from Jesus about the manner of his future death, the news must have stirred many conflicting emotions inside him.

On one side there was a sense of honor.
To follow the path of his master—even to the point of death—meant that his life would carry a great mission. It meant that his faith would not remain merely words. It would become an act.

But on the other side stood a darker realization.

There is a quiet reversal embedded in much of popular theology. It appears devout. It sounds orthodox. It is preached with conviction. Yet beneath the surface it subtly transfers sovereignty from God to human beings.

The common formulation goes something like this: you can be saved only if you believe in Jesus Christ as your Savior. If you do not believe, you are not saved. If you do not acknowledge him, his saving work does not apply to you. If you do not confess, you remain outside the Kingdom.

Introduction: the problem we refuse to accept

The dominant reading of John 9 and John 11—shared, ironically, by much of mainstream Christianity and by its atheist critics—rests on a single assumption: instrumentalism. According to this view, blindness and death are permitted, prolonged, or even arranged so that God may later display power or secure glory. A man must be blind for decades so that one day he may become a sign. Lazarus must decompose for several days so that no skeptic may deny the miracle.