The Word

The Word

One of the university units I took explored language through the lens of social factors. In one of the first classes, the professor remarked that a word is more than a unit of meaning; it is also a social marker that conveys identity, status, and group affiliation. He then wondered whether this might help explain why the apostle John, in the opening chapter of his Gospel, refers to Jesus as “the Word.” He did not develop the idea further—it was simply a passing observation from a sociolinguistic perspective—but it stayed with me. 

I began to reflect on John’s striking introduction: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” There is profound depth in this declaration that Jesus is the Word. First, it speaks to Jesus’ status: He is the Word, the unique and complete expression of God’s will. Second, it reveals His affiliation: He was with God—uncreated, existing eternally in relationship with Him. Third, it affirms His identity: He is God. Not a god, but fully and truly God; the Father and the Son are one.

What an extraordinary introduction.

Words carry meaning, but they are also shaped by social context, making them intelligible to those within a shared community. In a similar way, we come to understand God through relationship with Him. We hear Him when we are reconciled to Him—through the forgiveness of sins made possible by His Word, Jesus Christ. Our status changes from condemned to saved, and our identity is now found in Christ.

Have you heard the Word?

The Door

 John 10:9

There are things only children can see—things adults forget or choose not to believe. Only a few grown-ups keep that childlike sight, choosing to believe despite how strange it may seem in adulthood.

I am one of those child-adults. I still remember when I first heard of it—when I first saw it. It was unforgettable.

“Wait, what did you hear? What did you see?”

I’ll tell you. But I must start at the beginning.

As a little girl, I went wherever my parents took me—grocery stores, supermarkets, the local library, and church. Church was the most interesting place of all. I understood why we went to buy food or borrow books, but church puzzled me. Every Sunday, people sang together and then suddenly became silent when a man began to speak. They nodded as if they understood everything. I didn’t. I just waited for Sunday School.

I loved Miss Vera’s classroom. She was kind and gentle, and being there felt safe.

One Sunday morning, on our way to church, something happened. My father—usually a careful driver—lost control of the car. We swerved toward a tree and missed it by what felt like an inch. “Help us, Lord!” my mother cried. The car stopped. Dad was pale; Mom was speechless.

The first thing Dad did was take Mom’s hand and mine and pray, “Lord, thank You for helping us when we needed You most. We praise You in the name of Your Son, Jesus. Amen.”

I knew he wasn’t speaking to us—but to someone else. I had heard about God, yet I wondered: Who was this Lord? Who was His Son? Why could no one see Him? What did He look like? What did He sound like?

That morning in Sunday School, Miss Vera showed us a poster shaped like a door. She read, “I am the door. If anyone enters through Me, he shall be saved… and find green pastures.”

She explained that Jesus, the Son of God, was the door—not one that leads to another room, but one that leads to a place no one has ever fully seen: a place of peace, where sorrow and hate cannot enter. But to go through that door, we must believe in Him and turn away from sin—lies, hatred, dishonesty, disobedience.

I was astonished. Jesus is a door? How could that be? Yet more than confusion, I felt longing. I wanted to see that place.

That night, I asked my mother why Jesus was called a door. She smiled and said He is also light and love. He came to lead us out of darkness, to save us, and to give us eternal life. We prayed together, and I fell asleep thinking about light shining in the dark—because darkness had always frightened me.

That night I dreamed.

I stood in a long hallway filled with doors. Behind each one were rooms full of toys and sweets. I wanted to stay, but I was searching for Jesus—the door. I couldn’t find Him. I began to cry.

Then I heard a voice: “Come, child. This is the way.”

I followed the voice until I reached a small wooden door—smaller than all the others. It seemed too small for me to enter. But I remembered: I must believe. I turned the knob.

Light burst forth—brighter than the sun. Beauty beyond words. And there He was.

He took my hand and said, “This is yours forever. I will always be with you. Do you believe?”

“I do,” I answered.

I woke with a peace and joy I had never known. I told my parents everything. They rejoiced and thanked Jesus for loving us enough to take our place on the cross.

Years passed. I grew older. Sometimes I was tempted to dismiss the dream as just a dream. But then I remembered: Jesus said we must become like children to enter His kingdom. A child does not analyze—she believes.

So I choose to believe.

I choose to trust the One who loves me so deeply that He gave His life for mine, who opened the door to heaven and calls me by name.

And you—have you heard His voice? Have you found the door?

If not, seek it. Listen carefully. You will hear your name.

Look for the door.

 "I am the door: by me if any man enter in, he shall be saved, and shall go in and out, and find pasture". John 10:9