The Gospel That Burrows Beneath
“Behold, I am making all things new.” —Revelation 21:5
The Gospel is not a tool of power or reaction, but the living root from which a new creation grows. It is solid, sacrificial, and alive with grace. —D.
Christianity has too often bowed at the altars of power, trading the wildness of the Gospel for influence, approval, or ease. We’ve offered Christ as a mascot for political tribes, a moral code for empires, a balm for middle-class anxieties. But the Gospel is no tame heirloom, no cultural accessory. It is a root that burrows beneath history. It cracks stone, heaves up through soil, and sends shoots of transformation where no one thought life could grow. It doesn’t conform to the world’s tempo. It lives by its own rhythm, calling us to build, not safer spaces, but braver ones. Not escape, but incarnation. Not abstraction, but bread. Wine. Water. Flesh.
The Church is not the world’s echo chamber or retreat. She is its seedbed. A place where mercy makes a home in real time, where Virtue is not virtual, and Love takes on wood and nails. It is no reaction to the age’s noise. It is a holy act of rebellion against despair. The Gospel doesn’t reflect life. It creates it. It takes the weary, the wandering, the stubborn and the soft-hearted, and gathers them at the altar where everything begins again. It carves beauty into the bark of a dying age, shaping a cross from splinters and breath.
This is the Gospel’s power. It doesn’t dominate, but resurrects. Not to mirror the world but to make something entirely other: a world remade by grace. In this new world, strength kneels, mercy rules, and courage looks like a man dying to save his enemies. This is not myth. This is not metaphor. This is the slow growth of holiness that is steady, succulent, and real as bread in the hand, wine on the tongue, and water poured over a newborn brow. This is the Gospel, and it is still alive.