A Pharisee in the Sanhedrin named Gamaliel, a teacher of the law, respected by all the people, stood up, ordered the Apostles to be put outside for a short time, and said to the Sanhedrin, "Fellow children of Israel, be careful what you are about to do to these men. Some time ago, Theudas appeared, claiming to be someone important, and about four hundred men joined him, but he was killed, and all those who were loyal to him were disbanded and came to nothing. After him came Judas the Galilean at the time of the census. He also drew people after him, but he too perished and all who were loyal to him were scattered. So now I tell you, have nothing to do with these men, and let them go. For if this endeavor or this activity is of human origin, it will destroy itself. But if it comes from God, you will not be able to destroy them; you may even find yourselves fighting against God." They were persuaded by him. After recalling the Apostles, they had them flogged, ordered them to stop speaking in the name of Jesus, and dismissed them. So they left the presence of the Sanhedrin, rejoicing that they had been found worthy to suffer dishonor for the sake of the name. And all day long, both at the temple and in their homes, they did not stop teaching and proclaiming the Christ, Jesus.
REFLECTION:
I read today’s passage, and I feel nothing. It’s as though my heart is dead. Yet when I place two fingers on my carotid artery, there’s still a pulse. My heart is still beating, even if I don’t feel it. My faith feels the same: no emotion, just a pulse I didn’t ask for, but one that God continues to sustain.
The part where the apostles rejoice after being flogged for Christ baffles me. In my emptiness, something still stirs. My mind recognizes the joy they felt, even if my heart cannot. And that’s fascinating. It is as if God reaches through my numbness with a whisper of truth. Not a feeling, but a flicker of understanding. I feel nothing, yet He still captivates me in my nothingness.
It’s like how Jesus transformed the crucifixion, a tool of torture, into a symbol of love. He took something meant to break and destroy, and turned it into the very source of our salvation. In the same way, even in my spiritual numbness, there remains the potential for transformation. God is still at work.
That quiet fascination is grace. Not earned, not deserved, not even fully welcomed, but there nonetheless. Maybe that is what faith sometimes is: not emotional highs, but “rejoicing to be found worthy to suffer dishonor for the sake of the Name.” And somehow, that recognition is enough to keep believing, even when my world has become an abyss.
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