Using Logic to 'Prove' God

Logic is one of the most powerful tools we have for evaluating truth. It operates through unchanging principles, such as:

• The Law of Identity (A is A)
• The Law of Non-Contradiction (A cannot be both A and not-A)
• The Law of the Excluded Middle (A is either A or not-A)

These universal laws govern not only reasoned thought but also meaningful communication. But where do they come from?

When we label something 'logical' or 'illogical', we appeal to a standard beyond ourselves—a standard that applies across all cultures, times, and circumstances. Unlike human customs or conventions, the laws of logic do not change or evolve. They are discovered, not invented.

But if logic is not a product of human invention, what explains its existence? If the universe were merely the product of matter, time, and chance, could something as immaterial, precise, and universal as logic arise from it?

A purely materialistic worldview holds that everything can be explained by physical processes alone. But can such a framework account for immaterial absolutes like logical laws? If logic were just neural firings, why does it hold true beyond individual brains, binding even the cosmos to its rules?

Imagine a spider randomly spinning silk and, through millions of years of trial and error, developing the perfect web. In evolutionary biology, such adaptations are attributed to natural selection. Natural selection refines physical traits, but logic isn’t a trait; it’s a framework that governs thought itself, transcending biological adaptation. To credit randomness with its precision strains credulity.

Could mere physical processes, governed by chance, produce unchanging, universal laws of thought? The leap defies calculation.

If logic were merely a byproduct of neural activity or social convention, it would be subject to change. But logic does not change—it remains constant, pointing to something beyond the physical world.

Logic isn’t alone in this; its close cousin, mathematics, also hints at a reality beyond the physical. Numbers are not tangible objects, yet they are essential for describing reality. No one has ever seen the number “2,” yet its properties remain consistent. Even more intriguingly, mathematics often reveals truths about the universe before they are observed empirically.

For example, imaginary numbers (like the square root of -1, denoted i) were once considered theoretical but later became indispensable in physics and engineering.

What if God is like that—an unseen yet necessary reality, foundational to everything we experience? Just as mathematical laws require a rational framework to exist, so too does logic. And a rational framework implies intention, suggesting a Mind, not just a force. Could that Mind be personal, engaging with what it has made?

Many skeptics dismiss this idea, pointing to contradictions among religious believers or failings within religious institutions. That’s fair—human imperfections exist.

But what if the question of God isn’t about flawed people, but about ultimate reality? If logic suggests a rational, unchanging foundation, wouldn’t it make sense to explore whether that foundation is personal?

If there is even a possibility that God is real, would it not be worth investigating? Here’s a simple challenge:

Humbly ask:
"God, if You are real, show Yourself to me in a way I can understand."

Then, approach the Bible not as myth, but as a potential window into truth. Read with an open mind.

Humbly ask again:
Does this explain reality better than its alternatives?

My prayer for you:
"Father, You have revealed Yourself powerfully to those who seek You. Please do the same for anyone reading this today. Let them see what is true. Amen."

No doubt, no sin, no past is beyond Christ’s forgiveness for those who turn to Him. If logic itself points beyond the material world, perhaps truth is not just an abstract principle—but a Person. Seek with an open heart, and follow the truth wherever it leads.

Updated: The Shroud of Turin: A Cosmic Clue in Linen

I’ve written about the Shroud of Turin before, captivated by its mystery and the questions it raises.

But recent research—and an AI-enhanced image —has reignited my fascination. New studies suggest the Shroud’s uncanny 3D image, projecting up and down like an x-ray, might echo something profound: a singularity, an event horizon, a moment where the physical brushes the eternal. As a physicist recently proposed, this relic could be more than a historical curiosity—it might be a teaching tool, much like the stars above us.

The Shroud, a long linen cloth bearing the faint outline of a crucified man, has always defied easy explanation. Its image isn’t painted or dyed; it’s a negative, revealed fully only through modern photography, with depth that lifts off the fabric in three dimensions. Then there’s the Sudarium of Oviedo, the lesser-known face cloth, its wounds and measurements aligning with the Shroud’s in a way that feels too precise to dismiss. John 20:5-7 whispers a connection—linen cloths left in an empty tomb, the face cloth rolled up with care, as if someone wanted us to notice. Together, these relics pull us into the crucifixion’s raw reality, whether we approach them with skepticism or faith.

But this latest theory—a singularity?—takes it further. Black holes teach us about gravity’s extremes, warping space and time into points of infinite mystery. Solar eclipses, too, are lessons: the moon’s size and distance align so perfectly with the sun that we can witness totality, a cosmic dance designed for us to see.

The universe, I’ve long believed, is fine-tuned not just for life but for discovery. We’re placed on a platform where we can gaze at the stars and ask why. What if the Shroud is part of that same design? A moment of divine collision—suffering, death, and resurrection—captured in cloth, left for us to wrestle with?

That AI-enhanced image only deepens the pull. It sharpens the face on the Shroud, bringing the weight of that suffering into focus. I see a man who didn’t live for Himself but died for us, a love so vast it bends the rules of what we think possible. The singularity idea fits here: an event horizon where time and meaning collapse, where the Creator’s hand leaves a mark we’re still deciphering. Like the stars, the Shroud invites us to look closer, to learn, to reflect.

And yet, skepticism often clouds the conversation. Some dismiss the Shroud outright, claiming it “can’t be true” because there were two cloths—missing the Sudarium entirely. I’ve even heard Christians argue this, unaware of the second relic that complements the first. It’s one thing to say, “I have my doubts”—that’s honest, open, a mind still seeking. But to slam the door with “No way”? That’s not a life eager to learn. The skeptics who dig in, ignoring evidence like the Sudarium’s eerie alignment, sometimes reveal more about their bias than the relics themselves. The universe teaches us through mystery; closing our eyes to it doesn’t make the lesson disappear.

I don’t claim to have answers. But I do see a thread—from the fine-tuned cosmos to this enigmatic relic—that points to a Logos who wants us to seek. The Shroud and Sudarium aren’t just artifacts; they’re windows into a sacrifice that transformed death into life. They remind me that the universe, in all its grandeur and mystery, is a classroom. And maybe, just maybe, the Shroud is one of its most haunting lessons.

Feet of Clay, Foundations of Sand, and Lost in the Noise

We’re a nation divided, and it’s not hard to see why.

Anger and bitterness pulse through our veins, fueled by a culture that thrives on reaction and retribution. I’ve been watching it unfold on X lately, where terms like “woke right” bounce around—half critique, half weapon—exposing the raw nerves of a fractured people. It’s the latest symptom of a deeper ache: we’re all hurting, and instead of healing, we’re shouting over each other. X is just the megaphone, turning our pain into soundbites and our divisions into snarky one-liners. It’s a marketplace of ideas, sure, but the format—short, sharp, and prone to venom—pours gas on the fire.

I have a love-hate thing with X. When Elon Musk took it over, I cheered. He made it freer, messier, and less a tool of propaganda for globalists and leftist elites. It now has both sides... better, but both sides have wolves in sheep's clothing.

It’s a window into the heartbeat of our culture—news breaks there, trends rise, and you can feel what people are wrestling with, unfiltered. I lean on it to stay connected, to know what’s stirring beyond the polished headlines. But there’s a shadow side. For every honest voice, there’s a chorus of bad actors—negativity merchants, false prophets, gossip vendors, and flat-out liars. The freedom I celebrate comes with a flood of noise, and sifting through it is exhausting. It’s a tool that reveals us, but it doesn’t redeem us.

That’s where I keep hoping the American church could step in. In my bones, I believe gospel messaging and Biblical values—grace, truth, love—could be a balm for this mess. Imagine a voice cutting through the X chaos, reminding us we’re all broken, all in need of something bigger than our grudges. Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” There’s power in that—stopping the scroll, quieting the noise, and remembering who’s in control. But the church feels lost in the noise too. It’s got feet of clay—flawed, human, stumbling—and too often builds on sand, chasing relevance or political points instead of bedrock truth. I see pastors on X with big platforms, but half the time they’re just playing the influencer game, not pointing to something different.

The “woke right” dust-up is a perfect example. It’s a term born from hurt—conservatives feeling betrayed, liberals mocking, everyone clutching their piece of the victim pie. On X, it’s a snark-fest, not a reckoning.

And the church? Mostly silent, or worse, joining the fray with its own hot takes. We’re reacting to reactions, nursing wounds with salt instead of salve. Division isn’t new—maybe we’re just better at broadcasting it now—but it’s hard to shake the sense that we’re stuck. X amplifies our human reflexes: when we’re hurt, we lash out, and when we’re lost, we dig in.

Yet there’s hope woven into the mess if we look for it. Jesus said in John 16:33, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” Trouble’s a given—X proves that daily—but it’s not the end of the story. The church could lean into that, offering a lifeline instead of a loudspeaker. Ephesians 4:2-3 nudges us further: “Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace.” That’s a tall order in a soundbite culture, but it’s a call worth answering—less yelling, more bearing with each other.

I don’t have easy answers. I’m as tangled in this as anyone—drawn to X’s pulse, repelled by its poison.

But I keep circling back to that gospel hope: a call to step off the sand, past the clay, and onto something solid. The noise won’t quiet on its own, and the church won’t find its voice by mirroring the shouting match.

Maybe it starts smaller—less megaphone, more mercy.

Less trending, more timeless.

We’re a nation adrift, but there’s still a foundation to stand on. For now, the static’s loud, and I’m left wondering how long we’ll keep yelling into the void. But I’m holding onto this: “The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer” (Psalm 18:2). Clay crumbles, sand shifts, but that doesn’t move.

“Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. [25] And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. [26] And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. [27] And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it.” (Matthew 7:24–27 ESV)

Undiscovered

Sam Walter Foss once wrote,

"The face of the earth is a wide stretch of ground,
And the best of the world is forever unfound."

There is something within us—deep, restless, and unshakable—that longs for what has not yet been seen, tasted, or understood. We were made for discovery.

And yet, how easy it is to slip into a "been there, done that" mentality. It is the true mark of old age—not the passing of years, but the loss of wonder. When curiosity fades, when learning ceases, when we no longer chase after the undiscovered, we begin to wither.

From the moment we take our first breath, we are wired to explore. A child sees the world as an endless landscape of possibility—every tree is a mountain to climb, every shadow a mystery to uncover. This thirst for discovery does not belong solely to youth; it is embedded in the fabric of our being. It is why we push the boundaries of science and technology, why we dream of what lies beyond the stars, and why we yearn for deeper love, richer experiences, and greater understanding.

But why?

Why do we never reach a point of complete satisfaction? Why do we always hunger for more?

Our love of the ideal—of a perfect father, a devoted mother, a lifelong spouse, unbreakable friendships—points to something beyond us. We crave a version of these relationships without betrayal, without loss, without the ache of time stealing them away. Deep in our souls, we seem to remember something we’ve never actually known—a world without entropy, without decay.

Could it be that this longing is evidence of God?

C.S. Lewis once wrote:

"If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world."

I have written on this though extensively- an example: Hope in Living Water 

If God is who the Bible says He is, then He is infinite. And if He is infinite, then eternity will never be stagnant, never dull, never a static paradise of harps and clouds. It will be an endless unfolding of new experiences, new beauty, new depths of understanding.

Paul captures this thought perfectly in 1 Corinthians 2:9:

"But, as it is written, ‘What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him.’”

This verse reminds us that our understanding of what lies ahead is incredibly limited. No matter how much we dream, invent, or push the boundaries of human knowledge, there is still an unimaginable reality waiting for us in God’s design. We yearn for more, not because we are unsatisfied, but because we are wired for a future where fulfillment and discovery are not opposites—they coexist in perfect harmony.

Our thoughts of heaven are often too small. Too shallow. Too confined to our earthly limitations. But what if eternity is a grand adventure, a limitless pursuit of the undiscovered? What if, rather than a place of passive existence, it is a place where we continue to create, to explore, to advance, to dive deeper into the wonder of an infinite God?

If we are made in His image, and He is the great Creator, then wouldn’t it make sense that our eternity is filled with unending creation?

So we press on. We refuse to stagnate. We fight against the dull weight of complacency. Because life is not about reaching the end—it is about continuing the journey.

And maybe, just maybe, the best of the world is forever unfound... because we were never meant to stop searching.

Are you ready to discover the Undiscovered?

Peter - He Called Me Rock (Intro to the Album)

Back in 2020, I wrote a number of story narratives and exposition of the Epistles of Peter- the last few weeks I have revisited the project and decided to add music to the journey- here are the narratives and lyrics for the entire album:

Full Album link- He Called Me Rock- Songs from The Life of Peter

Individual narratives and lyrics- one tip- if you want to read the lyrics along with the music- I suggest finding the album on your phone- read the narrative and then read the lyrics as you listen.

We Meet Simon-

It had been a spectacular day.

Only fishermen understand the profound satisfaction, the tangle of emotions that swell at the end of a perfect trip on the water.

Simon was spent, yet exhilarated. His back ached as he spread the last net across the pebbled shoreline, now aglow with the crimson brilliance of the Mediterranean sunset. The deep blue sky, rippling waves, and low clouds painted the horizon in hues of purple and orange—Jehovah’s final, breathtaking strokes, cast in the fleeting minutes of His glory.

Birds wheeled and dove, their cries echoing the triumph. Baitfish had swarmed the boat all day, and even now, predatory schools erupted on Lake Gennesaret’s surface. No need to cast the nets again—Simon’s boat groaned under the weight of the haul.

Days of failure, heartache, and missed chances always paved the way to moments like this. Fishermen’s hopes die hard, though. This day would fuel countless more—high winds, snarled nets, bloodied hands, and meager catches—but for now, it was enough.

The sons of Zebedee sprawled nearby. John gazed at the sunset, while James lay motionless, dead to the world. Simon swallowed the urge to bark orders; perfection softened even his edges. The ideal conditions had driven the brothers with relentless vigor, too busy to bicker—a rare and welcome peace amid the chaos.

Andrew, Simon’s brother, stoked the shoreline fire until it roared, then hurried back to secure the boat and ready the catch. “Want me to call them?” he asked, nodding toward the dozing pair.

Simon glanced over—both brothers out cold now—and shook his head slowly, hands on his hips. “No, give them a minute. We’ve a long night ahead with this bounty.”

Andrew grinned. He liked seeing his brother happy.

“The Jordan’s running strong today,” Andrew said. “Clean, powerful water.”

Simon nodded, unusually quiet, though contentment radiated from him. “Yes, brother,” he said at last, unable to hold it in. “Miracle water. We haven’t had a day like this in ages.”

He whistled sharply, and a pack of local boys raced toward the boat, jostling to outrun each other. Simon laughed at the sight. “We’ve had a good day!” He tossed a small coin to the fastest. “Run to my wife and her mother—tell them we’ll need help tonight. Bring more salt, too.”

A few more boys from Bethsaida lingered, wide-eyed, half in awe of Simon’s towering silhouette against the dying light. “Ok, ok… you three, but no more,” he relented.

Andrew set them to work, and the bustle roused James and John to their feet. One boy, bolder than the rest, piped up. “This is the best catch in all of Capernaum today!”

Simon’s chest swelled at the praise. Fishermen are good at that, too.

Deep inside though, Simon’s discontentment always lingered…….

Song 1: Lost at Sea

Verse 1:

The salt air cuts like a sharpened blade,

Hands like stone from the life I’ve made.

I pull the nets, I call the crew,

They hear my voice, but they don’t know the truth.

Pre-Chorus:

The waves keep rolling, the years slip past,

I built my name, but it won’t hold fast.

Chorus:

I’m lost at sea, though my feet touch land,

The tide pulls deep, but I won’t reach for a hand.

They call me strong, they say I lead,

But I’m drowning slow where no one sees.

Verse 2:

The market’s full, and the fire burns bright,

We raise our cups in the lamplight.

I laugh along, I play my part,

But silence howls inside my heart.

Pre-Chorus:

The nets are full, the silver’s weighed,

But something’s missing I can’t name.

Chorus:

I’m lost at sea, though my feet touch land,

The tide pulls deep, but I won’t reach for a hand.

They call me strong, they say I lead,

But I’m drowning slow where no one sees.

Bridge:

I’ve heard whispers on the wind,

Of a voice that calls, of a hope within.

They say He walks upon the waves,

But I don’t believe—not yet, not today.

 Chorus:

Still lost at sea, though my feet touch land,

Still driftin’ deep, afraid to take a hand.

They call me strong, they say I lead,

But maybe there’s more than what I see.

Peter- Fire in Her Bones (pt 2)

Andrew had never seen his brother cry.

Yet there Simon was, unmistakable, slumped against the mud-brick wall of his house, tears streaking his weathered face. Andrew’s own eyes welled up at the sight. The day was a bleak capstone to a week of dread. Inside, the house brimmed with people, but a heavy stillness smothered it—no movement, just the amplified sound of stifled sobs.

Andrew had followed Simon outside. Even in the dark, the pain radiating from his brother was palpable. He hesitated, unsure. Dare he approach Simon in this rare, raw moment?

Simon sensed him anyway. “What do you think, brother?” The words barely escaped, trembling through short, ragged breaths.

Andrew stepped closer, resting a hand on Simon’s neck. “We must pray. God can heal this fire in her bones.”

Simon didn’t argue—didn’t want to dampen Andrew’s flickering faith—but he pulled away, staring at the stars. Silent questions burned in his chest, the kind all men howl in their anguish. Around them, life droned on: dogs barked, sheep bleated, the faint scent of Capernaum’s fires hung in the air. Meaningless. Empty.

They stood in uneasy quiet until Andrew ventured again. “What of the Healer?”

Simon shook his head. “She won’t survive the Jordan. You know that.”

“No, Simon—not John. The man in Galilee. The Christ!”

“The demon fighter?” Sarcasm laced Simon’s voice now, sharp and bitter. “The one who wants to rename me? The Messiah you keep prattling about?”

Talk of the Nazarene had swirled lately—teaching in synagogues, casting out a demon from a man shrieking curses. Most dismissed it as a stunt. Simon had met him once, dragged by Andrew after John the Baptist spouted some cryptic line about a lamb and sin. Andrew had been giddy, but Simon found Jesus unremarkable—too ordinary. Worse, the man had called him “Petros,” a rock, sparking laughter from the others. No one mocked Simon and won his favor. He’d fired back later, chuckling with the skeptics: “Nothing good comes from Nazareth.”

Andrew could chase after this Nazarene or that wild locust-eater in camel hair, dunking sinners in the Jordan—fine. Simon had told him to keep it off fishing time. Andrew, ever loyal, obliged.

When Andrew recently credited the Jordan’s waters for their latest haul, Simon saw through the hint. Ceremonial washings boosting fish? Absurd. He’d brushed it off, too weary to argue.

“He won’t come,” Simon muttered now. “Why would he care about the mother-in-law of a man he calls a rock?”

“Do you mind if I ask him?” Andrew pressed.

Simon’s wife cut in, her voice fierce from the doorway. “Andrew, what are you waiting for? Go!”

Simon shot her a glare, jaw tight. He’d be no part of some sideshow. This Christ wouldn’t come anyway. Kicking the dirt, he wondered if they had enough for a funeral. Deeper still, guilt gnawed at him—he loved her, this woman, and feared she’d never known how much.

---

“He’s coming! Go tell Simon—the Christ is coming!”

Simon jolted awake against the wall, disoriented. How long had he drifted in his grief? His wife grabbed his arm. “You’ll need to invite him in, Simon!”

He stumbled to the front, half-dreaming. Torches bobbed in the distance, a crowd swelling from the synagogue’s direction. Andrew’s voice rang out, unmistakable: “Here, Rabbi! This way! Almost there!” He darted ahead, then back, while the figure behind him walked with maddening calm.

Firelight revealed the Nazarene—same ordinary face Simon remembered. Their eyes locked. “Andrew pressed me to come see your mother-in-law,” Jesus said, firm. “May I enter, Cephas?”

That name again—“Peter”—snapped Simon alert, bristling. “She’s very sick, my Lord,” he stammered. “A fire’s raging in her bones. We fear she won’t last the night.”

Jesus’ gaze cut sideways at “Lord,” piercing through Simon’s flippant tone. Then, gently, he took Simon’s wife by the face, whispering something private. She clutched his hands, weeping. “Yes,” she said, urgent. “She’s in here.” Jesus ducked into the dim, sickness-laden room.

He emerged a moment later, scanning the gathered faces. Andrew spoke first, voice steady. “Rabbi, you can make her whole. I believe it with all my heart.” Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.

Simon marveled at his brother’s certainty.

Jesus beckoned them inside. In the cramped space, he raised his hands and eyes heavenward, whispering words Simon strained to catch but couldn’t. Then Jesus stepped over the trembling, fever-wracked form on the floor. In a voice like thunder, he rebuked the illness—cursed it, in the name of Abraham’s God, as if it were a living foe.

Simon thought he’d hated this sickness. Now he felt Jesus’ fury dwarf his own, raw and commanding. After a pause, Jesus knelt, looked up at Simon’s wife, and said simply, “Your mother is whole.”

Before anyone could move, she rose—steady, alive—kissed Jesus’ cheek, and the room exploded in praise. No sound like it had ever filled Simon’s home. Outside, shouts grew: “The Master healed her! Praise God! The Messiah!”

They sat, stunned. Andrew grinned at Simon, hopeful. Simon’s wife and her mother—now bustling as if never ill—brought bread and wine. Simon stared at Jesus. That rebuke had pierced him, too, arrowing past the fever into his doubting heart.

Jesus left later, same unhurried stride, toward the synagogue. He didn’t say “Cephas” again.

“Andrew,” Simon rasped, “tell James and John we’re not fishing this morning. We’ll go tonight.”

How could he fish now? Too much churned in his mind.

Song 2- Fire in the Bones

(Verse 1)

I’ve never let them see me break

Never let the cracks show through

But here I am, my knees are weak

And I don’t know what to do

(Pre-Chorus)

I hear Andrew’s voice, a hopeful cry

Speaking of a man, the healer of time

But why would He come for me?

For the woman who raised my bride?

(Chorus)

Fire in her bones, burning through the night

She fades like embers losing light

Can He command the flames to cease?

Can He bring this storm to peace?

(Verse 2)

I met Him once, He called me rock

A jest, a name, a word, a thought

I laughed, I turned, I cast my doubt

But now I call His name out loud

(Pre-Chorus)

And there He stands, walking slow

A carpenter’s son with a heart aglow

He looks at me, He sees right through

Like He already knows the war I lose

(Chorus)

Fire in her bones, burning through the night

She fades like embers losing light

Can He command the flames to cease?

Can He bring this storm to peace?

(Bridge)

He speaks a word, He calls it out

Like fire itself should know His sound

And in a breath, the fever’s gone

She stands, she smiles, she carries on

(Chorus)

Fire in her bones, now turned to grace

The heat has left without a trace

And in my chest, something stirs

A fire now burns inside of me

(Outro)

I call Him Lord, but does He know?

How deep my doubts, how much I’ve closed?

Yet still He walks, yet still He stays

And still He calls my name today

 

Peter- Simon Comes Undone (pt. 3)

The little village of Bethsaida, nicknamed “Fish Hut,” buzzed with excitement. Hundreds of new faces flooded in, drawn by the Nazarene. Tales about him swirled through the crowd, as varied as the people themselves.

Simon was exhausted.

The past few days had spun into a blur of confusion. Last night on the boat, everyone felt it—Simon wasn’t himself. Normally, he commanded with vigor, eyes sharp for every shift in wind or water, ego as big as his reputation. But last night, he’d been a shadow—distant, mechanical, lost in thought.

Andrew had to step in when James and John started bickering, their voices rising like a storm. Simon usually quashed their squabbles before they flared. Not this time. The boat rocked with discord and returned empty of fish.

Finally, Simon did the unthinkable. “Go back to shore,” he told the sons of Zebedee, voice low and steady. “Fish with your father today. He’ll be glad for the help. There’s nothing out here.”

James blinked. “Are you dismissing us?”

Simon shook his head. “No. We’ll go again later. Daylight’s breaking. We’re done.”

The brothers were too stunned to argue, their spat forgotten.

Back on shore, Bethsaida hummed with anticipation. Word of Simon’s mother-in-law’s healing had spread, fueling the festive air. Simon saw the spark in Andrew’s eyes—he’d be no use here. “Go,” Simon said. “Run and see him. I’ll handle the boat.”

Andrew leaped over the bow, landing like a panther on the pebbles, and bolted toward the crowd.

Simon crouched, a calloused hand brushing the sodden nets—hours in the Sea of Galilee, nothing to show. He didn’t want to bother. Nearby, James and John helped their father, Zebedee, washing nets with care. They glanced at Simon, wary. Usually, he’d be racing to outshine them. Today, he felt adrift. Nets still tangled, he abandoned routine—something he never did—and longed to hold his wife, maybe even talk about it all.

The shore pebbles gleamed in the sun, wind rising with the clamor of the approaching crowd. Simon looked up. Jesus strode toward him, same deliberate pace as that night, hundreds pressing behind. Two boats stood between the throng and Lake Gennesaret. Simon knew which one Jesus wanted.

“Simon! Push us out! They’ll hear my Father’s word best from there.”

They stepped aboard together. Simon let out just enough anchor rope, giving Jesus space. Jesus flipped a fish basket, sat, and the crowd settled on cue—a sprawling, impromptu schoolhouse on Galilee’s edge.

His voice rang out, laced with power Simon had never heard. People had whispered about this message—synagogues packed with listeners. Now Simon heard it raw.

“You are the salt of the earth. But if salt loses its taste, how can it be restored? It’s good for nothing but to be tossed out, trampled underfoot. You are the light of the world. A city on a hill can’t hide. No one lights a lamp to cover it with a basket—they set it high to shine for all. So let your light blaze before others, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.”

Simon knew little of the ancient Word, never cared to. But Jesus’ words gripped him—impossible to tune out. He recognized snippets from Moses, echoes of Isaiah and Jeremiah. Then came something new, something no Galilean had ever heard.

“I haven’t come to abolish the Law or the Prophets—I’ve come to fulfill them. Not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the Law until all is done. Whoever slackens the least commandment and teaches others to do the same will be least in the kingdom of heaven. But whoever keeps and teaches them will be great. Unless your righteousness surpasses the scribes and Pharisees, you’ll never enter.”

Jesus spoke for hours, past the third hour, then stopped. He turned to Simon alone.

“Simon, let’s go fishing. Put out into the deep. Let down your nets.”

The crowd drifted back to shore, but Andrew swam to the boat, grinning. Simon stood. “Master—” Jesus didn’t flinch at the title this time. “We toiled all night and caught nothing. There’s no point.”

Jesus righted the basket, calm. “Put out into the deep. Let down your nets.”

Simon glanced at the other boat—Zebedee’s crew trailing, curious. “Seven miles behind us, seven to the west. A ridge drops over a hundred feet right here. Deep enough?”

Andrew laughed. Jesus smiled, childlike, drinking in the sun, the wind, the water. Simon peered down—the shallow bottom vanished into a blue abyss, sharper and purer than he’d ever noticed.

“Alright, Andrew. At the Master’s word, drop the nets.”

Jesus pitched in, hands on the ropes. The last net barely unfurled when the boat lurched—fish flooded in, rocking it hard. Both sides filled, balancing the haul but threatening to sink it.

“Andrew, pull!” Simon shouted, regretting he’d sent James and John away. A net snapped, dragging off the side. “Zebedee! Quick—we need help!”

Jesus and Andrew wrestled the broken net while Simon piled fish to steady the boat. Soon, his craft brimmed, another net still to haul. Zebedee’s boat filled too.

“These are your fish!” James called. “We’ll bring them in!”

“No,” Simon waved them off. “They’re yours. These aren’t mine.”

Jesus froze, eyes locking on Simon. Days ago, Simon had wept in the dark, wondering if God cared. Now, light bared him—his pride, his bluster, his cold heart, his years of pushing others down. He collapsed into the writhing fish, a cry tearing from his throat, shrill above the gulls.

“Get away from me!” Strange words over a deep trench in Gennesaret. “Please, Lord, depart—I’m a sinful man!”

Andrew dropped to his knees, prayers answered before his eyes. Healing a fever could be debated. This—a broken Simon, weeping without shame—was undeniable.

James and John stood like statues, awestruck. The catch meant nothing now. Simon was unraveling.

Jesus knew the chaos in him. He gripped Simon’s hand, voice steady with authority. “Do not be afraid.” Truth pierced Simon—he’d lived ruled by fear: failure, judgment, exposure as a fraud. Jesus hauled him up, strength enough to land both nets alone.

“Hear me, Simon. From now on, you’ll catch men.”

They reached shore, changed forever as sandals hit pebbles. Jesus walked ahead, hand outstretched, words ringing official: “Come, follow me.”

Andrew, James, John, and Simon left it all—boats, nets, heaps of fish. Zebedee watched, understanding.

Jesus touched Simon once more. “You are Simon, son of John. You shall be called Peter.”

Simon didn’t balk. It was time to walk with the Lord.

Song 3- Depart from Me

(Verse 1)

The dawn broke over Bethsaida's shore,

Empty nets and an empty core.

Through the night, I cast and toiled,

But all my strength had been uncoiled.

(Pre-Chorus)

Then He walked down through the tide,

With a voice like the rolling sky.

He stepped aboard and sat to teach,

Words like fire, yet soft as the breeze.

(Chorus)

Depart from me, O Holy One,

I am a man undone.

The weight of mercy bends my knee,

How could You call someone like me?

(Verse 2)

A thousand faces lined the shore,

But His eyes saw through my core.

He spoke of light upon a hill,

Yet in my soul, the dark was still.

(Pre-Chorus)

Then He said, "Go cast again,"

Though the sea had long been spent.

At His word, the depths gave way,

And my pride was swept away.

(Chorus)

Depart from me!, O Holy One,

I am a man undone.

The weight of mercy bends my knee,

How could You call someone like me?

(Bridge)

The nets were tearing, the boats ran deep,

But the burden in my soul ran steep.

Falling down among the fish,

I cried a prayer, my only wish.

(Chorus)

Depart from me! O Holy One,

I am a man undone.

The weight of mercy bends my knee,

How could You call someone like me?

(Outro)

But He took my hand and said, "Do not fear,"

A voice so strong, yet drawing near.

"From now on, you'll cast for men,"

And I knew my life began again.