Holy Disruption in the Easter Season

A Contemplative Reflection on Truth and Power in John 7:40-53 in the Season of Easter

There is something really stark in the final verses of the Gospel of John Chapter 7. The festival is over, the crowds are dispersing, and yet a storm brews quietly beneath the surface. A storm not of weather, but of resistance, fear, and power. Jesus has spoken openly and passionately, and people are stirred. Some are drawn to him, others threatened. And in this moment of holy disruption, we are invited not just to observe, but to enter.

“Surely this man is the Prophet… He is the Messiah.” (Jn 7:40–41)

The crowd murmurs with longing, as though their hearts, long parched, finally glimpse living water. In their voices, we hear both faith and confusion—something sacred is unfolding before their eyes, and yet it slips through their grasp like light on water. They recognise something of the presence of God in Jesus, and yet the structures they rely on—geographical, theological, institutional—begin to crack under the weight of divine presence. Again we see how institutional religion of the time is blind, because to acknowledge Jesus to be there Messiah would mean they would have to change and let go of the power they have accumulated. They are ‘right’ Jesus is ‘wrong’ and a dualism is set up which Jesus deliberately disrupts as it reflects Kosmos, the ‘domination system’, (see my previous posts over Holy Week about this if you have not read already).

So as a contemplative Christian reading this passage, we do not rush past this dualistic tension. We linger. We listen. We live with the desired disruption and non-dualism that marks Jesus’ ministry in this season of the resurrection.

Yet as I read this passage, I feel the ache of a recognition — that moment when your soul ‘true-inner-self’ stirs at the possibility of something true and luminous inspired by the presence of God, only to then be met by a wall of resistance from within or without. Who among us has not known this experience? The hunger for more. The whisper of hope. And then the violence of shutting this down.

“Search and you will see that no prophet is to arise from Galilee.” (Jn 7:52)

The words of the authorities reflecting the lie of the domination system fall heavy like stones. With the shield of scriptural certainty and institutional power, they dismiss what they cannot control. But as we know, Jesus has never fit into categories and who will disrupt what ever box we trying to conceptually imprison him in. He is the uncontainable ‘Word-made-flesh’, whose essence and being defies borders and whose truth exposes the heart. The leaders want control. Jesus offers invitation. And the two are not compatible, and as with the power of the resurrection, Holy and divine disruption will always defeat the ‘domination system’, but maybe not as quickly as we would like. This is why I lean now in older age towards contemplation than action as my starting place of spirituality and faith.

Contemplation is about seeing—deeply, truly, slowly. It requires the surrender of our certainties, especially the ones that protect and prevent us from being changed. In this passage, the religious leaders cannot see, because their vision is already decided. The contemplative must ask: where am I doing the same? Where do I prefer a rigid certainty over the disorienting nearness of the living Christ?

There is also Nicodemus. Quiet, cautious, caught in the middle.

“Does our law judge a man without first giving him a hearing and learning what he does?” (Jn 7:51)

His voice is small, and stressed. It is not a bold confession, but it is something — a flicker of integrity in a room growing darker. And perhaps that is enough. In the contemplative life, we learn that God often works in flickers — in the small, brave movements of the heart that risk being misunderstood, but are nonetheless faithful.

This scene aches with unspoken pain: the pain of truth dismissed, of hearts closed, of fear disguising itself as righteousness. It is the pain of every moment when God speaks and is not heard — not because God is silent, but because we are too afraid to listen. The contemplative knows this ache intimately. We have all been the crowd, the Pharisee, the hesitant Nicodemus. And yet, grace remains.

Jesus does not defend himself here. He does not argue, persuade, or posture. He simply is present, unyielding and vulnerable. In that stillness, he becomes a mirror. The division is not in him; it is in those who look upon him and must decide: will they remain safe yet anaesthetised to the fullness of life , or will they be changed?

In contemplative prayer, we are asked this same question. Will we stay on the surface, analysing and endlessly debating egocially? Or will we let ourselves be pierced by love? Will we allow the presence of Christ to disrupt us?

In the end, John 7:40–53 is about the inner struggle of every person. It is about fear and longing, control and surrender, blindness and sight. And in the silence after the voices fade, one question remains:

Can we bear the light of Christ when it threatens the shadows we have made our home?

This is the contemplative invitation. Not to argue for Jesus. Not to explain him away. But to stand before him, vulnerable and honest, and say—"Here I am. Show me how to see."

A Holy Disruption Contemplative Prayer Practice

Duration: 20–30 minutes
Space: A quiet place where you won’t be interrupted
Optional items: A candle, an icon or image of Christ, a journal

1. Prepare the Space

Light a candle if you have one. Let the small flame remind you of Christ’s presence—gentle, persistent, uncontainable.

Pray simply:
“Christ, Light of the world, come and illumine the eyes of my heart.”

Sit comfortably, close your eyes, and take a few deep breaths. Allow your body to become still. Let the noise of the world and your inner chatter settle.

2. The Inner Gaze

With eyes closed, imagine Jesus standing in front of you—not far off, but near. He is not speaking, just looking at you with immense tenderness and truth.
There is no judgment in his gaze—only love that sees you entirely.

Ask silently:
“Jesus, how do you see me right now?”
Stay in the gaze. Let whatever arises come gently. Don’t force insight. Just allow his seeing to soften you.

If resistance, fear, or discomfort surfaces, don’t push it away. Gently name it to God: “I’m afraid,” “I feel exposed,” “I don’t want to see this.” Let Christ’s gaze hold you there.

3. Seeing through Disruption

Now, holding that sense of being seen, ask another question:
“Jesus, what am I not seeing clearly in my life? In others? In you?”

Images, memories, names, or situations may arise. Don’t analyze. Just notice. Stay present to what the Spirit brings to your awareness.

You might consider:

• Is there someone I’m misjudging or avoiding?

• Is there a truth I’m resisting because it feels threatening or inconvenient?

• Where am I clinging to control instead of surrendering to love?

If you feel led, write a few notes in a journal—not to fix, but to remember what is being revealed.

Closing Prayer

End by praying this slowly and from the heart:

Jesus the Christ, you see all things clearly,
the hidden wounds I cover,
the fear behind my certainties,
the love I am afraid to receive.

Break open the walls I have built against your light.
Give me eyes that long for your truth,
not the comfort of delusion.

Let your gaze become mine.
That I may see with compassion,
with clarity,
and with courage.

Amen.

Photo by Kyle Cleveland on Unsplash