Stefanos's Blog

I had a dream that at first seemed simple, but it stayed with me because of what I felt in it. I was in my office at work, seated at my computer, going about an ordinary day. And then, without warning, I began saying, “I’m going to see Jesus.” I said it again and again. The words felt true and certain, and I had no hesitation or doubt about them.

I got up from my chair, but instead of walking, I floated. I drifted out of my office cluster and into the main hallway that circles the perimeter of the building. At the far end of the hall, where the corridor turned a corner, I saw a bright light. Instantly I knew: this was Jesus. The certainty of it was as matter-of-fact as recognizing someone I worked with. I kept repeating the same phrase, “I’m going to see Jesus,” while slowly floating toward the light.

I was almost there when something happened that was not my doing. Without any act of will, as though I were on a track, my body turned away from the light and drifted right, down the hallway that continued around the square.

What I saw there was devastation.

The hallway was ruined, furniture thrown everywhere, people screaming. But what struck me far more deeply than anything I saw was what I felt. A hopelessness so heavy and final that it was unlike anything I had ever experienced. And I realized, even in the dream, that I had never once known true hopelessness in my waking life. No matter where I had been, no matter what I believed or didn’t believe at the time, Jesus had always been there. His presence had always been a constant in my life, whether acknowledged or not.

But in that hallway, Jesus was gone. There was no presence of God. No comfort. No light. Just a complete absence, and the hopelessness that comes with it.

And then I woke up.

The dream confused me, because in the dream I wasn’t turning away from Jesus. I was heading straight toward Him. I wanted to go toward the light. The turn was not my choice. So I asked my pastor about it, and after I described the dream he said something simple:

“I think the Lord is giving you a burden for the lost.”

His comment made sense of what I could not. The dream wasn’t about my destiny, or some hidden fear in me, or a warning that I was turning away. In the dream, I was already going toward Jesus. The turn away from Him wasn’t a failure — it was a revelation.

I believe I was shown the hopelessness of hell, not as fire or torture, but as the absence of Christ. A glimpse of what it means to exist without His presence, even for a moment. And the contrast was so sharp because I have never lived a day of my life without Him being there.

If that dream had any purpose, it was to teach me compassion — to understand, even faintly, the inner reality of souls who have no hope because they have not known the One who is hope. I think that’s what my pastor meant by “a burden for the lost.” It was not about fear. It was about understanding.

And that is what has stayed with me.

There is a common assumption that Joseph must have died before Jesus began His ministry. The usual reason given is the scene at the cross where Jesus gives Mary to John. The thinking goes, Mary needed someone to care for her because Joseph was gone, therefore Jesus asked John to take that place.

I’ve always accepted that because everyone repeats it, but recently I started looking at the scene in John’s Gospel by itself. And once you slow down and read the passage carefully, something interesting comes into focus.

The scene is not shaped around Mary’s need. It is shaped around John’s.

The Gospel says, “From that hour, the disciple took her into his own.” The emphasis is on John receiving Mary, not Mary receiving care. The text highlights what happens to John, not what happens to Mary.

That pushed me to think about John’s situation. John never mentions his parents in his Gospel. His father appears once early in the Synoptics and disappears. His mother is never named in John’s Gospel, not even at the cross. John stands alone at a moment when families normally gather. And Jesus has an unusually close, almost family-level relationship with him.

So here’s the thought that came to me:
“John, here is your mother” makes far more sense if John had already lost his own mother.
Without that, Jesus’ words would almost sound like He’s giving John a second mother while his real mother is alive somewhere offstage. But if John was already motherless, the whole scene becomes clear and very personal.

In that light, Jesus is not replacing a missing Joseph in Mary’s life, but filling a missing relationship in John’s life.

In other words, what if John had lost his parents, and Jesus had taken him under His wing long before the cross? That would make the scene a moment of adoption, not housekeeping. Mary gains a son, and John gains a mother. That fits the tone of John’s Gospel, which is all about new birth and new family, not biological ties. It also matches Jesus saying, “I will not leave you as orphans.”

This way of reading it actually fits the Gospel of John better than the usual explanation. John does not present himself as someone who already has a mother present at the crucifixion. He presents himself as someone who needs a mother, and someone whom Jesus is bringing fully into a new household of faith.

I am not trying to argue against tradition. I just think this gives fresh clarity to the passage. Instead of Jesus solving a practical problem for Mary, He may be doing something deeper: forming the very first spiritual family at the foot of the cross.

Mary gains John.
John gains Mary.
A new household begins right there.

It is an adoption story.