Resurrection Meaning: The Death That Makes You Alive

The Crucifixion and Resurrection

Genesis showed you the break. How you left presence and started performing.

Exodus showed you the liberation. How you leave what enslaves you and cross into freedom.

The Prodigal Son showed you the homecoming. How the exiled, impulsive, unprocessed parts of you can stop running and come back to the table.

Now we come to the story Christians have always understood as the center of everything. The crucifixion and resurrection. The death that makes you alive.

This isn’t just another demonstration chapter. This is where every pattern we’ve traced converges. The death of the old self. The three days in darkness. The emergence of something that can’t be killed.

Before we walk through the story verse by verse, notice something: this pattern has already appeared throughout Scripture. It’s the three-part journey we explored in Chapter 3: feel what’s there, glimpse the larger possibility, dwell in the new reality. Or in the language of death and resurrection: descend, see the light break through, rise into who you actually are.

Joseph (Genesis 37-50), the dreamer his brothers hated, gets thrown into a pit, sold into slavery, imprisoned in a dungeon for a crime he didn’t commit. He feels the descent completely. Then dreams reveal what’s coming. He rises to rule Egypt.

Moses (Exodus 2-3), the prince who killed a man defending his people, disappears into the wilderness for forty years. He feels his exile, his failure, his lost identity. Then a bush burns without burning up. He rises to confront Pharaoh.

Jonah (Jonah 1-2), the prophet who ran the opposite direction when God called, ends up in the belly of a great fish. Three days in darkness. He feels what he’s been avoiding. Then he’s vomited onto dry land. He rises to do what he ran from.

Daniel (Daniel 6), the man who wouldn’t stop praying even when it meant death, gets thrown into the lions’ den. The stone is sealed. He spends the night with creatures that should have torn him apart. In the morning, he walks out unharmed.

And before Jesus went to the cross, he went under the water.

At his baptism (Matthew 3:16-17), Jesus descends into the Jordan. He doesn’t need baptism for sin. The Christ is presence fully integrated. A mirror of what it looks like to live without unconscious emotional energy running the show, with all internal voices working together instead of fighting each other. We have access to this in glimpses, every time we stay present with what’s happening inside us instead of reacting. And over time, as we process the bypassed emotions we couldn’t feel when they first hit us, along with all the inherited emotional weight we absorbed from parents and society before we had any say in the matter, something clears. The Christ pattern is the ability to feel everything without projecting it forward. He’s modeling the pattern. He goes under (the feel, the descent, the death). He comes up and the heavens tear open. The Spirit descends. The Father’s voice declares who he is: “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.”

That’s the glimpse. The part of you that is already whole declares to every other part: this is who you actually are.

Then he dwells in it. For the rest of his life. Through the temptation in the wilderness, through the teaching and healing, through the opposition and betrayal, all the way to the cross. He lives from what was shown, not from his circumstances. Even when they strip him, mock him, nail him to wood, he doesn’t lose the identity the Father declared. He’s dwelling in what he glimpsed, not in what’s happening to his body.

The crucifixion is the ultimate test of dwelling: Can you hold the glimpsed identity even when they’re killing you? Can you stay rooted in what God showed you when everything around you says it wasn’t real?

The resurrection is the answer: Yes. What he glimpsed was true. What he dwelled in was real. The identity the Father declared can’t be crucified.

The pattern is everywhere: descent, darkness, death of the old. Then emergence, light, resurrection into something new. Feel, glimpse, dwell. Die, see, rise.

The crucifixion is where this pattern reaches its fullest expression. And in you, it’s happening right now — in varying stages, across different parts of your life. You might have deep presence in your work and deep unconsciousness in your relationships. Clarity with your health and total blindness around money. The work isn’t arriving at some finish line. It’s making the unconscious conscious, one area at a time.

The Entry That Activates Everything

Matthew 21:8-9 “A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, while others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and those that followed shouted, ‘Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!’”

Jesus enters Jerusalem on a donkey. The crowds wave palm branches. They shout his name. They throw their cloaks on the ground for him to ride over.

Jerusalem is the center. The capital. The place where the temple stands, where all power converges, where everything that matters in Israel gathers. Jesus has been operating in Galilee, in the margins, in the provinces. Now he enters the center.

This is the moment you step into a bigger paradigm. You stop playing small. You claim your actual seat. You step into the space where you can’t hide anymore.

The promotion that puts you in rooms you used to just hear about. The book deal that means your words will actually be read. The relationship where you finally let yourself be seen. The decision to build the thing, start the company, write the song, say the truth out loud.

Part of you celebrates. The crowds cheer. This is where you belong.

But entering the center activates everything that was dormant when you played small.

The religious authorities (your inner critic, the voice that judges whether you’re doing it right). The political powers (your survival mechanisms, the patterns that kept you safe by keeping you small). The crowd that can turn (the parts of you that celebrated but aren’t actually ready to go all the way).

These parts were fine when you stayed in Galilee. They didn’t need to show up when you weren’t threatening anything. But now you��ve entered their territory. Now you’re playing at a level where all your unresolved stuff has to surface. You’ve stepped into a bigger game, and every fear and unknown of the new paradigm is rearing its head, demanding to be seen and processed.

Within a week, some of these same voices will shout “Crucify him.”

This is the death rattle. Not external failure, but internal uprising. Everything that can’t survive in the new paradigm making its final stand.

The Garden Where You Face It Alone

Matthew 26:38-39 “Then he said to them, ‘My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.’ Going a little farther, he fell with his face to the ground and prayed, ‘My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.’”

Gethsemane. The garden of pressing.

Jesus knows what’s coming. He doesn’t want it. His soul is overwhelmed with sorrow. He asks if there’s any other way.

This is the honest prayer. The one that admits you don’t want the transformation that requires losing everything. The part of you that says please, not this. Anything but this.

He asks his closest friends to stay awake with him. They fall asleep. Three times he comes back, and three times they’ve drifted off.

The disciples are the parts of you that want to be present but can’t. The coping mechanisms that check out when things get too real. The inner resources that worked in calmer stretches but go drowsy when you need them most. Your usual strategies for handling difficulty. Your go-to distractions. Your comfort patterns. They mean well. They just can’t stay awake for this.

This part of the journey you face alone. Not because no one loves you, but because the parts of you that usually help have fallen asleep. The night before the surgery. The evening before you file the papers. The hours before the conversation that changes everything. Nothing you normally rely on can hold this with you.

“Not as I will, but as you will.”

This isn’t resignation. It’s alignment. The moment you stop fighting what’s coming and let it come.

The Kiss That Identifies What Has to Die

Matthew 26:48-50 “Now the betrayer had arranged a signal with them: ‘The one I kiss is the man; arrest him.’ Going at once to Jesus, he said, ‘Greetings, Rabbi!’ and kissed him. Jesus replied, ‘Do what you came for, friend.’”

Judas arrives with soldiers. He identifies Jesus with a kiss.

The intimacy of betrayal. It’s never something foreign that undoes you. It’s the glass of wine you pour every evening to “unwind” that’s actually keeping you from feeling what the day stirred up. It’s the scrolling you call relaxation. The busyness you call productivity. The self-soothing that’s really self-bypassing. The coping mechanism that feels like a friend but is quietly selling you out every single night.

Judas is the part of you that sells out what’s sacred for thirty pieces of silver. The part that trades presence for security. The part that thinks it can force the miracle, that by creating a crisis, you can make God show up the way you want. It’s the inner zealot who tries to manipulate divine timing, to corner the sacred into performing on demand. And in trying to control what can only be surrendered to, it destroys what it loves most.

The kiss is how you know which part has to go. Whatever betrays you is identifying itself. The habit that’s killing you (the drink you pour at 5pm that becomes four more by 7). The relationship that’s draining you (the name on your phone that makes your stomach drop). The identity that’s too small for who you’re becoming.

“Do what you came for, friend.”

Jesus doesn’t fight the betrayal. He lets it do its work. Because the kiss doesn’t just identify him to the soldiers. It identifies what has to die. It’s the triggering feeling, the unconscious emotional energy that was trying to run the show. That feeling must be felt through to completion. And in being fully felt, it dissolves. It integrates back into presence. The voice that was running things from the shadows stops running them.

The Denial That Has to Happen

Matthew 26:74-75 “Then he began to call down curses, and he swore to them, ‘I don’t know the man!’ Immediately a rooster crowed. Then Peter remembered the word Jesus had spoken: ‘Before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times.’ And he went outside and wept bitterly.”

Peter, who swore he would die before denying Jesus, denies him three times before sunrise.

This is the part of you that was so certain it had already transformed. So confident the old fear was gone. You’d had the revelation. You’d felt the love. You’d walked on water, for a moment. You thought you were ready.

Then the pressure came, and you watched yourself retreat into exactly what you thought you’d left behind.

You’d done the inner work. Read the books. Had the breakthrough. Then someone threatened your security and you made the same decision you always make. You’d committed to presence, to love, to staying open. Then the conflict arose and you collapsed into defensiveness, into self-protection, into the marketplace logic of what’s this going to cost me?

The denial isn’t weakness. It’s revelation. Peter has to discover that parts of him are still ruled by fear. That the Christ-consciousness he touched in the upper room hasn’t yet reached the places that activate when survival feels threatened. Because the Peter who rises after the resurrection isn’t the Peter who made promises. That Peter had to feel his own incompleteness. Had to discover the gap between who he thought he’d become and who he still was.

He went outside and wept bitterly.

Feel where this lands in your body. The moment you realized you weren’t who you thought you were. The night you did the thing you’d judged others for. The weeping that comes when your self-image shatters.

This isn’t the end of Peter’s story. It’s what makes his restoration possible. You can’t be rebuilt until you’ve collapsed.

The Trial Where They Accuse You of Being What You Are

Mark 14:61-62 “Again the high priest asked him, ‘Are you the Messiah, the Son of the Blessed One?’ ‘I am,’ said Jesus. ‘And you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the Mighty One and coming on the clouds of heaven.’”

They accuse him of claiming to be what he is.

This is what the world does to the part of you that knows what it knows. It puts you on trial for your own truth. It demands you deny what you’ve experienced.

Inside you, the voice that monitors your spiritual correctness wants this part dead. The voice that manages your survival and public image wants to wash its hands of the whole mess. Your inner religious authority and your inner political authority — the rules you built your identity around and the image you’ve been managing for years — both want this emerging truth eliminated.

They can’t tolerate someone who says “I am.”

Because if Jesus is what he says he is, everything changes. If the part of you that knows its own divinity is real, the whole system that keeps you small has to be rebuilt.

So they call it blasphemy. They call it crazy. They call it dangerous.

And they sentence it to death.

The Stripping That Removes Everything External

Matthew 27:28-29 “They stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him, and then twisted together a crown of thorns and set it on his head. They put a staff in his right hand. Then they knelt in front of him and mocked him. ‘Hail, king of the Jews!’ they said.”

They take his clothes. They dress him in mockery. They press thorns into his scalp and pretend to worship him.

This is what happens right before the transition completes. Everything aligned with the old identity rises up to stop it.

The voices that tell you who do you think you are. The internal parts that mock your emerging self. The old ego doesn’t surrender quietly - it mobilizes everything it has. It strips away your confidence. It dresses your new identity in ridicule. It finds your most sacred sense of calling and presses thorns into it.

You’ve felt this. The moment you started to step into something new and every insecurity you’d ever had came screaming to the surface. The day you finally said yes to the thing you were called to, and immediately felt smaller and more fraudulent than ever. The internal voices that said you’re not ready, you’re not worthy, who do you think you are to become this?

Here’s what’s actually happening: fear is presenting you with the biggest, most uncomfortable feelings it can find. Shame. Dread. The urge to quit. The sudden conviction that you’ve made a terrible mistake. These feelings aren’t random. They’re strategic. They’re designed to get you to pivot, to abort the mission, to retreat back to the smaller version of yourself where everything was predictable and safe. The crown of thorns is fear’s death rattle — its final play to dress your calling in so much pain that you turn back before the transformation completes.

Your job isn’t to fight these voices. It’s to dwell. To remain present while every part that’s afraid of the transition screams and writhes. To let them exhaust themselves against your stillness.

They mock him by calling him king. But here’s what they don’t understand: he is king. Not in spite of the thorns. Through them. The very intensity of the resistance is confirmation. Fear doesn’t mobilize like this for something that doesn’t matter. The bigger the feelings, the closer you are.

The crown that wounds you is still a crown. The thing they’re mocking you for is the thing you actually are.

The Cross Where Everything Converges

Luke 23:33-34 “When they came to the place called the Skull, they crucified him there, along with the criminals—one on his right, the other on his left. Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.’”

Two pieces of wood. One vertical, one horizontal. Where heaven meets earth. Where the timeless intersects time.

They nail him between two criminals. One mocks him. One asks to be remembered.

Luke 23:42-43 “Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ Jesus answered him, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.’”

Two responses to suffering. The part that turns bitter and the part that turns toward something beyond the pain. Both are in you. Both hang beside you in every crisis.

The criminal who mocks represents the voice that says if this were real, it wouldn’t hurt. If God were real, this wouldn’t be happening. The criminal who asks to be remembered represents the voice that says I don’t understand this, but I trust there’s something beyond it.

Which voice do you listen to when you’re hanging on your own cross?

The Darkness Where Even Presence Disappears

Matthew 27:45-46 “From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land. About three in the afternoon Jesus cried out in a loud voice, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’”

Three hours of darkness over the whole land.

This is the dark night. The absolute bottom. When the connection that sustained you through everything seems to have abandoned you.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Jesus is quoting Psalm 22. And this matters more than it might seem.

Psalm 22 begins with this cry of abandonment. But it doesn’t end there. It ends with deliverance, with victory, with “future generations will be told about the Lord.” Jesus knows this. He knows the whole arc.

This is Jesus demonstrating how Scripture works. He’s not just crying out in pain. He’s invoking a pattern he knows ends in victory. By identifying with Psalm 22, he’s aligning himself with the complete journey - not just the feeling of the moment, but the resolution that’s coming.

This is what we’ve been learning to do throughout this book. When you identify with a biblical character, you’re not just validating your current emotion. You’re aligning with their entire arc. The descent and the rising. The pit and the throne. The cross and the resurrection.

If Jesus had only felt the abandonment, he would have stayed in the abandonment. But he felt it while identifying with someone who makes it through. That’s the difference. That’s why we read this way.

Even in the darkness, he’s pointing toward what’s coming. But he has to feel the abandonment first. So do you.

There’s a moment in transformation when even the presence seems gone. When you can’t feel God. When the practices that used to work don’t work. When you’re not sure anymore if any of it was real.

This is supposed to happen. The darkness isn’t wrong. It’s the space between what was and what’s coming.

The Death of Who You Thought You Were

John 19:30 “When he had received the drink, Jesus said, ‘It is finished.’ With that, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.”

Not “I am finished.” It is finished.

The old identity. The limited self. The part that could be crucified. That’s what’s finished.

This is the death of who you thought you were. The version of yourself that was small enough to be nailed to wood. The identity that depended on circumstances, on recognition, on other people’s opinions.

That one’s done.

You’ve felt this. The moment when fighting stopped making sense. When the grip released. When you finally let go of what had to go.

The Torn Veil

Matthew 27:51 “At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom.”

The veil that separated the holy of holies from everyone else. The barrier between ordinary people and the presence of God. It tears. From top to bottom.

Not from the bottom up (your effort). From the top down (grace).

What you thought separated you from God was never actually a barrier. The distance you felt, the unworthiness, the sense that the sacred was somewhere else and you weren’t allowed in. Illusion. The veil was always temporary. And now it’s gone.

You have access to presence. Not because you earned it. Because a layer of who you thought you were fell away. And in its falling, the separation you felt was never the truth.

The Three Days When Nothing Seems to Change

Matthew 27:59-60 “Joseph took the body, wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and placed it in his own new tomb that he had cut out of the rock. He rolled a big stone in front of the entrance to the tomb and went away.”

Joseph of Arimathea is the part of you that honors what has died. The part that doesn’t pretend the old identity is still alive. That wraps what’s finished in clean linen and gives it a proper resting place. You need this part. Without it, you keep trying to resurrect what was supposed to stay dead.

The tomb is sealed. The stone is rolled. For three days, nothing visible happens.

This is the space you can’t skip. The seed underground. The chrysalis sealed. The waiting room after the surgery when the doctors aren’t saying anything yet.

Something is happening in the darkness. The transformation is occurring precisely where you can’t see it. Your job in the three days is to not undo the burial. To not force the stone open early. To trust that something is working even when every piece of evidence says it’s over.

The disciples are the parts of you that don’t know resurrection is coming. They think it’s finished. They hide. They grieve. They start making plans for what comes after the end. These parts can’t see what’s happening in the tomb. They only know something died and now there’s nothing to do but wait.

You’ve been in the three days. You might be in them right now. The relationship ended and you’re not okay yet (you still check their social media at 2am, hating yourself for it). The career collapsed and nothing new has emerged (you refresh your email hoping for the interview callback that doesn’t come). The old faith died and you don’t know what you believe anymore.

Stay in the tomb. Don’t rush this part.

The Resurrection That Changes Everything

Matthew 28:5-6 “The angel said to the women, ‘Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said.’”

The stone is rolled away. The tomb is empty. What they buried isn’t there anymore.

The angel is the part of you that knows before you do. The voice that announces what’s already true while the rest of you is still looking for a corpse. “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” This part doesn’t argue with your grief. It simply states what is: what you’re looking for isn’t here. It has risen.

But notice: what rises isn’t what died.

Luke 24:36-39 “While they were still talking about this, Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, ‘Peace be with you.’ They were startled and frightened, thinking they saw a ghost. He said to them, ‘Why are you troubled, and why do doubts rise in your minds? Look at my hands and my feet. It is I myself! Touch me and see; a ghost does not have flesh and bones, as you see I have.’”

He appears in locked rooms. He’s physical enough to eat fish. They don’t always recognize him at first. He’s the same, and he’s completely different.

The resurrection body isn’t the crucified body. It’s something new. Something that can’t be killed because it was never really born.

But notice: the wounds are still there. Jesus shows them. Thomas touches them. The resurrection doesn’t erase what you went through. It transforms it.

Your scars remain. Not bleeding anymore, but visible. They’re the evidence that this isn’t a fantasy. They point to what catalyzed the change. The divorce, the diagnosis, the failure, the loss - you still carry those marks. But now they’re not open wounds. They’re proof of what you survived. They’re how you know the new you is real, not just a wish. The very things that killed the old you become the credentials of the new.

This is what you discover after your own death and resurrection: you’re still here. But you’re not the same person who went into the tomb. That one died. And what rose can hold things the old you couldn’t hold. Can go places the old you couldn’t go. Can walk through doors that were locked to who you used to be.

The Appearances That Meet You Where You Are

John 20:15-16 “He asked her, ‘Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?’ Thinking he was the gardener, she said, ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Mary.’ She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, ‘Rabboni!’ (which means Teacher).”

Mary doesn’t recognize him until he says her name.

Mary is the part of you that’s looking for what died and can’t find it. She’s you two months after the career change, still reaching for the old routine every morning. Still checking the inbox that doesn’t exist anymore. Still defining yourself by the title you no longer hold. She needs to hear her own name spoken by the new reality before she can recognize it. Something in you needs to be called by name before you’ll believe the transformation is real.

The disciples on the road to Emmaus walk with him for miles and don’t know who he is until he breaks bread.

The Emmaus disciples are the parts of you that walk alongside the new reality without recognizing it. The new life is right there, talking to you, but it doesn’t look like what you expected. These parts need something familiar before they can see what’s been with them all along. A repeated gesture. An old ritual in a new context. The song you used to sing with your mother, heard in a grocery store, that suddenly cracks you open. The phrase your mentor always said, landing differently now that you’ve walked through the fire. Something the old you would recognize, showing up in the new landscape.

Thomas needs to touch the wounds before he’ll believe.

Thomas is the doubting part that needs proof. The part that says I won’t believe until I put my finger in the holes. This part isn’t faithless. It’s honest. It knows how badly you’ve wanted things to be true that weren’t. It needs to touch the wounds, to feel that what rose still carries the marks of what it went through.

Peter, who denied him three times, gets asked three times: “Do you love me?”

Peter is the part that failed and knows it. The part that needs restoration, not just information. Three denials require three affirmations. This part can’t just be told the resurrection happened. It needs to be invited back into relationship. It needs to hear: you’re still wanted. Your failure didn’t disqualify you.

The resurrection doesn’t force recognition. It reveals itself to the parts of you that are ready to see. And it meets each part exactly where it is.

How does resurrection meet you? What do you need to recognize that what died has risen?

Death and Rising

This chapter maps the anatomy of transformation:

The Entry - Stepping into a bigger paradigm activates every fear and unknown that was dormant
The Garden - The honest prayer that admits you don’t want this
The Betrayal - The triggering feeling that shows you where the work lives, the kiss that identifies what has to die
The Denial - Discovering that parts of you are still ruled by fear
The Trial - Being accused of your own truth
The Stripping - The old identity’s final attack on the new
The Cross - Where everything converges
The Cry - Invoking a pattern you know ends in victory
The Death - “It is finished.” The old identity ends
The Tomb - Honoring what died. Waiting without forcing
The Resurrection - What rises still carries the wounds, but they’re not bleeding
The Appearances - Each part of you recognizes the new life differently, through a familiar gesture, a spoken name, a touched wound

This is the pattern of every genuine transformation. Every death that leads to new life.

What This Means for Provision

Here’s where this connects to everything we’ve built.

The marketplace couldn’t save Jesus. Political power couldn’t save him. Religious standing couldn’t save him. His own strength couldn’t save him. Everything the world says should protect you, failed.

And he rose anyway.

This is the final lesson about provision: it doesn’t come from the marketplace. It doesn’t come from your effort, your hustle, your network, or your strategy. It comes from a place the marketplace can’t touch.

The resurrection body doesn’t need what the old body needed. It can eat fish, but it doesn’t depend on food. It walks through doors. It appears where it’s needed.

When you die to the identity that believed it had to earn its survival, you discover that provision comes from presence itself. Not from Pharaoh. Not from Egypt. Not from anything the world can give or take.

The disciples spent three days thinking it was over. All the big feelings that tell you it’s finished, that you’ll never recover, that the best is behind you. When those feelings are fully felt and processed, they don’t stay as despair. They become creative potential. Energy that was locked up in grief and fear transmutes into something that has to be expressed. It flows out through your deepest gifts, through aligned creative expression that looks different for every person. The disciples spent three days in those feelings. Then they spent the rest of their lives telling everyone: death isn’t what we thought it was. Neither is provision.

Practice

Sit somewhere quiet. Put your hand on your chest.

Find the cross in your life right now. The place where something is being crucified. The identity that’s being stripped. The certainty that’s dying. The version of yourself that’s hanging there, not sure if it will ever end.

Don’t rush the resurrection. That’s not your job.

Your job is to let the old thing die. To stop fighting to keep alive what’s already finished. To trust the darkness of the tomb.

Feel the part of you that’s afraid this death is permanent. That nothing will rise. That the tomb is the end of the story.

Now feel the part of you that’s been through this before. That has already died and risen. That knows, somewhere beneath the fear, that you are not what’s being crucified.

Say this:

“What’s dying in me isn’t me. It’s the costume. The role. The identity I outgrew.

I’ve been crucified before. I’ve spent time in the tomb before. And I’m still here.

What I am can’t be killed. What I am was never born.

The veil is torn. The separation I felt was never real. I have access to the presence I thought was somewhere else.

I release my grip on the old identity. I trust the three days. I wait for what rises.

It is finished.”

Let that land in your body. Feel what it would feel like to stop fighting the crucifixion. To let the old self complete its death.

The stone will roll away. It always does.

Our Reading Companion is trained on the 5-step mystical interpretation method. Have a question? Ask it at BibleMystic.com