Lenten Reflection – Day 45 of the Great Lent
Wednesday of Holy Week – The Last Day of the Light
St. John 12:19-50
“Most assuredly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it produces much grain.” (12:24)
Yesterday the traps failed. The Pharisees asked about taxes and learned about identity. The Sadducees asked about the resurrection and learned about God. Every question was answered with a wisdom that left the questioners silent.
Today is Wednesday. The last day of public teaching. By tomorrow evening, Christ will be in Gethsemane. By Friday morning, He will be before Pilate. By Friday afternoon, He will be dead.
Wednesday is the hinge. The day the public ministry ends and the private Passion begins. The last words spoken to the crowd before the words are spoken only to the disciples, to Pilate, to the Father, and to no one at all in the silence of the tomb.
And on this last day, Christ speaks about a grain of wheat. About falling into the ground. About dying. About the fruit that comes from the death. About His own soul being troubled. About the hour that has come. About the light that is present for a little while longer.
Walk while you have the light.
The light is about to go out. Not forever. But for three days. The longest three days in the history of the world. And before the darkness falls, the Light speaks.
Unless a Grain of Wheat Falls (vv. 23–26)
“But Jesus answered them, saying, ‘The hour has come that the Son of Man should be glorified. Most assuredly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it produces much grain. He who loves his life will lose it, and he who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life. If anyone serves Me, let him follow Me; and where I am, there My servant will be also. If anyone serves Me, him My Father will honour.'” (12:23–26)
“The hour has come.”
Throughout the Gospel of John, the “hour” has been approaching. At Cana, Christ said “My hour has not yet come” (2:4). In Jerusalem, “no one laid hands on Him, because His hour had not yet come” (7:30). Again, “His hour had not yet come” (8:20). The hour has been a distant point on the horizon. A clock ticking toward something. A destination that the entire Gospel has been walking toward.
Now it has arrived. “The hour has come.” Present tense. Here. Now. On Wednesday of Holy Week. The clock has reached the hour. And the hour is not what anyone expected. The glorification of the Son of Man is not a throne. It is a cross. The glory is not a crown of gold. It is a crown of thorns. The hour is the hour of death. And Christ calls it glorification.
“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone.”
The simplest, most devastating parable in the Gospels. Not a story with characters. Not a narrative with twists. A single image. A grain of wheat. Falling into the ground. Dying. And from the death, producing much grain.
The grain that refuses to fall into the ground survives. It remains whole. Intact. Undamaged. And alone. Alone on the surface. Alone in its completeness. Alone in its refusal to die. The grain that preserves itself has preserved nothing. It is a single seed on a shelf. Permanent. Useless. Alone.
The grain that falls into the ground loses everything. Its shell cracks. Its interior is exposed. The structure that held it together dissolves. The seed as it was ceases to exist. To anyone looking at the surface, the grain is gone. Dead. Buried. Forgotten.
But underneath the surface, in the darkness, in the silence, in the place where no one can see, something is happening. The death is producing life. The cracked shell is releasing the life that was trapped inside. The dissolving structure is feeding the shoot that is pushing upward. And from the one grain that died, thirty, sixty, a hundred grains are born.
Christ is talking about Himself. He is the grain of wheat. He is about to fall into the ground. On Friday. Into the tomb. Into the earth. Into the darkness. And everything that He is, the teaching, the healing, the authority, the love, the relationship with the Father, will appear to have ended. The grain will look dead. The shell will be cracked. The structure will be dissolved.
And from that death, the Church will be born. The Gospel will spread. The nations will believe. The billions of grains that have grown from the one grain that fell into the ground on Great Friday will cover the earth.
On Day 9, we reflected on the seed growing in secret (Mark 4:26–29). The farmer sleeps. The seed grows. He does not know how. Today is different. Today the seed is not anonymous. The seed is Christ. And the falling into the ground is not a mystery. It is the Cross.
St. Ephrem the Syrian, in his Hymns on the Crucifixion, writes that the grain of wheat parable is the most concentrated explanation of the Cross in the entire New Testament. He says Christ chose this image because it contains everything. The voluntary descent (the grain falls; it does not fight its way into the ground). The real death (the grain actually dies; the shell actually cracks; the seed actually ceases to exist in its original form). The hidden process (the growth happens underground, invisible, in the dark). The abundant result (much grain, not just one replacement). And the impossibility of the result without the death (unless it dies, it remains alone). Ephrem says: every word of the parable is a word about the Cross. Remove any one of them and the Cross makes no sense.1
“He who loves his life will lose it, and he who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life.”
The grain of wheat principle applied to the disciple. Not just to Christ. To you. The person who clutches the seed, who refuses to fall, who preserves the present form at all costs, will lose everything. The person who releases the grip, who falls into the ground, who allows the shell to crack, will find a life so abundant that the original grain looks like nothing in comparison.
On Day 25, the rich young ruler loved his life too much to let go. He preserved his grain. He kept it on the shelf. Intact. Undamaged. And alone.
On Day 36, Zacchaeus let go of half of everything. His grain fell. His shell cracked. And the life that poured out of the cracking was joy. Spontaneous, unforced, table-filling joy.
Wednesday of Holy Week asks: which grain are you? The one on the shelf or the one in the ground?
Now My Soul Is Troubled (vv. 27–28)
“Now My soul is troubled, and what shall I say? ‘Father, save Me from this hour’? But for this purpose I came to this hour. Father, glorify Your name.” (12:27–28a)
The most intimate sentence Christ speaks before Gethsemane.
“Now My soul is troubled.” Tetaraktai. The same word used for the disciples’ terror on the sea (Day 32, Mark 6:50) and for Mary’s disturbance at the angel’s greeting (Annunciation, Luke 1:29). Christ is shaken. Disturbed. Agitated. The soul that has been steady through every confrontation, every trap, every rejection, is now troubled.
Why?
Because the grain is about to fall. The hour has come. The death is real. Not theoretical. Not abstract. Real. The body that will be nailed to wood is this body. The lungs that will stop breathing are these lungs. The heart that will be pierced is this heart. The death is approaching and the fully human Christ is troubled by it. As any human being would be troubled by his own approaching death.
“And what shall I say?”
Christ does not know what to say. The Word of God, through whom all things were made, who spoke the galaxies into existence, who said “let there be light” and there was light, does not know what to say. The approaching death has rendered the Word temporarily wordless.
“Father, save Me from this hour?”
He considers the prayer. The prayer of escape. The prayer of avoidance. Father, take this away. Father, let the hour pass. Father, find another way. He considers it. He does not reject it instantly. He holds it in His mouth for a moment. Tastes it. Feels the weight of it. The prayer that would end the Passion before it begins. The prayer that would keep the grain on the shelf.
“But for this purpose I came to this hour.”
And He releases it. Not because the prayer was wrong. Because the purpose is greater than the prayer. He came for this hour. The Incarnation was for this hour. The virgin’s womb was for this hour. Bethlehem was for this hour. Nazareth was for this hour. Every miracle, every teaching, every healing, every step of the thirty-three years was walking toward this hour. And the prayer of escape, however understandable, however human, however real, cannot override the purpose.
“Father, glorify Your name.”
Instead of “save Me,” He says “glorify Your name.” Instead of escape, He chooses the glory. And the glory, as He has just explained, comes through the grain falling into the ground. The glory comes through the death. The name of the Father is glorified not by the Son being rescued from the Cross but by the Son embracing the Cross. The grain does not glorify the farmer by staying on the shelf. The grain glorifies the farmer by falling into the ground and producing a harvest.
“Then a voice came from heaven, saying, ‘I have both glorified it and will glorify it again.'” (12:28b)
The Father speaks. One of only three times in the Gospels that the Father’s voice is heard (the Baptism, the Transfiguration, and here). And what the Father says is confirmation. I have glorified My name. Through the life You have lived. Through the miracles You have performed. Through the teaching You have given. And I will glorify it again. Through the death You are about to die. Through the Cross. Through the tomb. Through the resurrection.
The past and the future meet in the Father’s voice. “I have” and “I will.” The glory that has been and the glory that is coming. And between them, Wednesday. The hinge. The day between the “have” and the “will.” The day the grain sits on the edge of the ground, about to fall.
St. John Chrysostom, in his Homily 67 on John, teaches that Christ’s troubled soul on Wednesday is the proof that the Passion was voluntary. If Christ had walked to the Cross without a tremor, the sacrifice would look mechanical. Predetermined. Robotic. The troubled soul says: this is a real choice. The death is genuinely terrifying. The human nature genuinely recoils. And the choice to proceed is genuinely free. Chrysostom says the tremor makes the courage possible. You cannot be brave without being afraid first. And Christ’s bravery on Great Friday is grounded in His fear on Wednesday. The troubled soul that says “for this purpose I came” is braver than any soul that walks toward death without feeling it.2
I, If I Am Lifted Up (vv. 30–33)
“Jesus answered and said, ‘This voice did not come because of Me, but for your sake. Now is the judgment of this world; now the ruler of this world will be cast out. And I, if I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all peoples to Myself.’ This He said, signifying by what death He would die.” (12:30–33)
“Now is the judgment of this world.”
Not the future judgment. Now. This week. This hour. The judgment of the world is happening in the events of Holy Week. Not at the end of time. In the middle of time. On a specific Wednesday in a specific year in a specific city. The Cross is the judgment. Not because God is punishing the world on the Cross. Because the Cross reveals what the world is. A world that crucifies its God is a world that has judged itself. The verdict is not imposed from outside. It is enacted from within.
“Now the ruler of this world will be cast out.”
Satan is cast out not by force but by the Cross. On Day 40, Christ defeated Satan in the wilderness with the Word of God. Today the final defeat is announced. The ruler of this world, who offered Christ all the kingdoms in exchange for worship, will be cast out. Not by an army. By a grain of wheat falling into the ground. The method of the devil’s defeat is the method the devil did not expect. Death. The thing the devil uses as his ultimate weapon is the thing Christ uses to destroy him. Satan’s weapon becomes Satan’s undoing.
“And I, if I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all peoples to Myself.”
On Day 24, Mid-Lent, the Cross was lifted in the Sleeba Aaghosham to the four directions. East. West. North. South. Today Christ explains what the lifting accomplishes. It draws. Not forces. Not compels. Draws. The word is helkusō. It means to pull toward. To attract. The lifted Cross has a gravitational pull. It draws all peoples. Not some. Not the chosen. Not the deserving. All. Pantas. Every direction. Every nation. Every person. The Cross is a magnet. And the magnetic field covers the earth.
John adds the editorial note: “This He said, signifying by what death He would die.” Lifted up. On the Cross. The lifting that looks like humiliation is the lifting that draws the world. The crucifixion that looks like defeat is the event that conquers death. The death that looks like the end is the grain falling into the ground.
St. Cyril of Alexandria, in his Commentary on the Gospel of John, teaches that the “drawing” of the Cross is the central act of salvation. He says Christ does not save from a distance. He saves by drawing. By pulling the lost toward Himself. By creating a gravitational centre on Calvary that every human being feels, whether they know its source or not. Cyril says the restlessness of every human heart, the longing that nothing in the world can satisfy, the hunger that no food can fill, is the pull of the Cross. You have been feeling it your whole life. You just did not know what was pulling you. It was the lifted Christ. Drawing you. From every direction. Toward Himself.3
Walk While You Have the Light (vv. 35–36)
“Then Jesus said to them, ‘A little while longer the light is with you. Walk while you have the light, lest darkness overtake you; he who walks in darkness does not know where he is going. While you have the light, believe in the light, that you may become sons of light.'” (12:35–36)
“A little while longer.”
The most urgent sentence in Holy Week. A little while. Not a long time. Not the indefinite future. A little while. Hours. The light is present for hours. By tomorrow evening, the light will be arrested. By Friday afternoon, the light will be extinguished. By Friday evening, the world will be in darkness.
“Walk while you have the light.”
Not tomorrow. Not after you have sorted out your theology. Not when you feel ready. Now. While the light is here. While the Word is still speaking. While the grain has not yet fallen into the ground. Walk. Move. Believe. Because the window that has been open since Day 1 of the Lenten fast is about to close. Not permanently. But for three days. Three days of darkness. Three days when the light is in the tomb and the world does not know where it is going.
On Day 39, Paul said “now is the accepted time; now is the day of salvation.” Today Christ says the same thing in His own words. Now. A little while longer. Walk while you have the light.
“That you may become sons of light.”
Not just recipients of the light. Sons. Children. Offspring. People who carry the light’s DNA. People whose very nature has been transformed by exposure to the light. You do not just see the light. You become the light. You do not just benefit from the light. You inherit the light. You become, in yourself, what the light is.
On Day 37, the Spirit of adoption made you a child of God. Today the light of Christ makes you a child of light. The two are the same thing. The Spirit and the Light are the same God. And the person who has walked in both for forty-five days is no longer just a person who fasts. He is a person who glows. Not visibly. Not dramatically. But really. The light has entered. The darkness has retreated. And the person who was shaped by forty-five days of the light’s presence carries the light even when the light is in the tomb.
They Did Not Believe (vv. 37–43)
“But although He had done so many signs before them, they did not believe in Him… Nevertheless even among the rulers many believed in Him, but because of the Pharisees they did not confess Him, lest they should be put out of the synagogue; for they loved the praise of men more than the praise of God.” (12:37, 42–43)
John pauses to note the tragedy. So many signs. So many miracles. The water turned to wine. The blind man given sight. Lazarus raised from the dead. And they did not believe.
Not everyone. Many did believe. Even among the rulers. But they believed in secret. In silence. In the hidden corners of their hearts where no one could see. They believed but did not confess. They were convinced but not converted. They knew the truth and kept it to themselves.
“For they loved the praise of men more than the praise of God.”
The most devastating indictment in the passage. Not “they were too stupid to see.” Not “they lacked the evidence.” They loved the wrong praise. They preferred the approval of the community to the approval of God. They chose the safe, respectable, socially acceptable silence over the dangerous, costly, life-changing confession.
On Day 35, the blind man stood before the Pharisees and said “one thing I know: I was blind, now I see.” He was expelled from the synagogue for it. He lost his community. He lost his social standing. He lost everything that the secret believers were protecting. And he gained Christ.
The secret believers on Wednesday have chosen the opposite. They keep their community. They keep their standing. They keep the praise of men. And they lose Christ. Not because Christ withdraws from them. Because they will not stand with Him when standing costs something.
Wednesday of Holy Week is the day of the secret believers. The people who know the truth and will not say it. The people who have been convinced by the signs and will not confess what they have seen. The people who love the praise of men more than the praise of God.
The fast has been forty-five days long. The evidence has been overwhelming. The miracles of the text. The miracles of our own experience. The Spirit praying in us. The fruit growing without our noticing. The having nothing that turned out to be possessing everything. The evidence is in. The signs have been done. The question of Wednesday is: will you confess? Or will you keep the belief in the secret corners where no one can see?
St. Macarius the Great, in his Spiritual Homilies, warns that secret belief is the most dangerous form of faith. He says it is more dangerous than open unbelief. The open unbeliever knows where he stands. The secret believer is divided. Half in the light. Half in the dark. And the division, over time, becomes the identity. You become the person who knows the truth and does not speak it. And that person is further from the Kingdom than the person who has not yet heard the truth at all. Because the secret believer has the light inside and keeps it covered. And a covered light is a dead light.4
I Have Come as a Light (vv. 44–50)
“Then Jesus cried out and said, ‘He who believes in Me, believes not in Me but in Him who sent Me. And he who sees Me sees Him who sent Me. I have come as a light into the world, that whoever believes in Me should not abide in darkness… And if anyone hears My words and does not believe, I do not judge him; for I did not come to judge the world but to save the world.'” (12:44–47)
The last public words of Christ in the Gospel of John.
He cries out. Ekraxen. He shouts. Not a whisper. Not a private conversation. A shout. In the Temple. On Wednesday. With the Cross two days away. The last public shout before the silence of the Passion.
“I have come as a light into the world.”
On Day 24, Mid-Lent, we heard “the light has come into the world and men loved darkness rather than light” (John 3:19). Today the light speaks for the last time. And what the light says is not judgment. It is salvation.
“I did not come to judge the world but to save the world.”
The last public word of Christ is not condemnation. It is the reiteration of the purpose. Salvation. The grain of wheat is falling into the ground not to punish the world but to save it. The Cross is not God’s judgment on humanity. The Cross is God’s rescue of humanity. The light that is about to go out is going out not because the darkness has defeated it but because the light is choosing to enter the darkness from the inside. To go into the ground. To die. And to produce, from the death, a harvest of light that will cover the earth.
“The word that I have spoken will judge him in the last day.”
The word judges. Not Christ. The word. The teaching spoken over forty-five days of the fast. The parables. The commands. The promises. The grain of wheat. The “I AM” statements. The “come to Me and rest.” The “stretch out your hand.” The word that has been spoken is now on the record. It will stand. And at the end, the word itself will be the standard by which the response is measured. Not “did you perform adequately?” But “did you hear the word? And what did you do with it?”
What Wednesday of Holy Week Means
Wednesday is the last day of the light.
Tomorrow the light enters the upper room and speaks only to the twelve. Then the garden and speaks only to the Father. Then the trial and speaks only to Pilate. Then the Cross and speaks only the seven last words. Then the tomb and speaks to no one.
Today is the last public address. The last open invitation. The last “whoever believes in Me should not abide in darkness.” After today, the words are private. After today, the public ministry is finished. After today, the grain begins its fall.
The fast has been forty-five days of walking in the light. Every reflection has been light. Every Scripture has been light. Every prayer enabled by the Spirit has been light. And the light has been saying, day after day: walk while you have Me. Believe while I am here. Become children of light while the light is still shining.
Wednesday asks: have we walked? Have we believed? Have we become?
Or have we loved the praise of men more than the praise of God? Have we kept the belief in secret? Have we heard the word and not acted on it?
The grain of wheat is about to fall. Tomorrow the upper room. Thursday night the garden. Friday the Cross. Saturday the tomb. And Sunday the harvest.
But today the light is still here. Still speaking. Still shouting in the Temple. Still saying: I did not come to judge. I came to save. Whoever believes in Me should not abide in darkness.
Walk. While we still have the light. The little while is almost over.
For Our Journey Today
Let the grain fall. There is something in our life that needs to die. Not be repaired. Not be adjusted. Die. The habit. The attachment. The identity. The version of ourselves that has been sitting on the shelf, intact, undamaged, and alone. Today, let it fall into the ground. The death is real. The shell will crack. The structure will dissolve. And from the death, more life than we can imagine. The grain on the shelf produces nothing. The grain in the ground produces a harvest. Let it fall.
Speak the secret belief. If we have been convinced during this fast but have not confessed, Wednesday is the last day of the light’s public invitation. Do not love the praise of men more than the praise of God. The blind man stood before the Pharisees and lost everything and gained Christ. The secret believers kept everything and lost Christ. Today, speak. Not to the whole world. To one person. Tell them what the fast has shown us. Tell them what we now believe. The covered light is a dead light. Uncover it.
Walk while you have the light. The light is present for a little while longer. Holy Week is moving. Thursday, Friday, Saturday are approaching. The darkness is coming. Not permanent darkness. Three-day darkness. But real darkness. Today, walk. Do the thing the light has been illuminating. Take the step the light has been showing you. Believe what the light has been revealing. Before the light enters the ground. Before the grain falls. Before the little while is over.
Lord Jesus Christ, Light of the world, who on Wednesday of Holy Week shouted Your last public words in the Temple, shout them into our hearts today. We have been walking in Your light for forty-five days. And we confess that some of us have loved the praise of men more than the praise of God. We have believed in secret. We have known the truth and kept it covered. Forgive us. The little while is almost over. The grain is about to fall. The light is about to enter the ground. Before it does, before the darkness of Friday, before the silence of Saturday, let us walk. Let us believe. Let us become children of light who carry the light even when the light is in the tomb. Father, glorify Your name. Not by saving Your Son from the hour. By letting the grain fall. By letting the shell crack. By letting the death produce the harvest that covers the earth. We are part of that harvest. We are the much grain that has grown from the one grain that fell into the ground on Great Friday. And we are grateful. Grateful for the fall. Grateful for the death. Grateful for the life that the death produced. By the prayers of the Most Holy Theotokos, the holy Evangelist John, and all the saints, have mercy on us and save us. Amen.
Wednesday of Holy Week. The last day of the light. The grain of wheat is about to fall into the ground. “Unless it dies, it remains alone. But if it dies, it produces much grain.” The soul is troubled. The hour has come. The Father’s voice confirms: “I will glorify it again.” Walk while you have the light. The little while is almost over. And from the falling, the harvest. And from the death, the life. And from the one grain, the billions of grains that cover the earth.
Patristic References
- St. Ephrem the Syrian (c. 306–373). Hymns on the Crucifixion (Madrāshē d-ʿal Zqeephutho). ↩︎
- St. John Chrysostom (c. 349–407). Homily 67 on John, on John 12:25–33. ↩︎
- St. Cyril of Alexandria (c. 376–444). Commentary on the Gospel of John, on John 12:32. ↩︎
- St. Macarius the Great (c. 300–391). Spiritual Homilies (Homiliae Spirituales), particularly Homilies 4, 12, and 15. ↩︎
