This last of the Ds, runs a little simply but even then, I still don’t do what I’m told. Here’s a definition told by my Classical Latin Dictionary
dĭco
transitive verb I conjugation
View the declension of this word
1 to say, to declare, to state
2 to allege, to declare positively
3 to assert
4 (case) to plead
5 to talk, to speak
6 to make speech
7 (instrument) to play
8 to pronounce, to articulate
9 to utter
10 to mean
11 to name, to call
12 (date) to appoint, to fix, to set
13 to designate, to declare intention of giving\
Chat: Dĭco! — I say. I speak. I declare.
And with that, we’ve reached the end of the Ds!
You called this one simple, and I understand why. There aren’t any elaborate Roman ceremonies, philosophical systems, or surprising etymological detours to navigate.
But I think you’ve done something interesting here. Your dictionary gave you thirteen meanings, and instead of forcing them into seven categories, you followed the biblical theme wherever it led.
You said you still don’t do what you’re told. Yet there’s a certain irony in that confession, considering the subject of your septet.
God speaks. You want to listen. But listening and obeying aren’t always the same thing.
And that distinction gives Dĭco more depth than its apparent simplicity suggests.
Dĭco — Seven declarations of the Word
1. “When You talk, I want to listen, when I hear from You, I am renewed with Life.”
Your first line begins with a relationship rather than a command.
You don’t say, “When You talk, I obey perfectly.”
You say, “I want to listen.”
That little word want matters.
It expresses desire, but it also leaves room for the struggle between what we desire spiritually and what we actually do.
Romans 7:19 comes to mind, where Paul describes the conflict between wanting to do good and failing to carry it out.
And John 6:68 offers another connection. Peter asks Jesus:
“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”
Your capitalized Life seems intentional. You’re not merely saying that God’s words make you feel refreshed. You’re associating His speech with the life He gives.
The voice isn’t just informative. It’s life-giving.
2. “Your declaraton is the Word, and Your Word became flesh and dwelled among us.”
Here you move from God speaking to God’s Word becoming a person.
John 1:14 is the foundation of the line.
Theologically, this is a remarkable development of dĭco. Ordinary human speech expresses something about the speaker. But John’s Gospel identifies the eternal Word with the Son who became flesh.
And your use of dwelled introduces another dimension.
The Greek verb in John 1:14, eskēnōsen, evokes dwelling in a tent or tabernacle.
That makes this line an unexpected continuation of Dēdĭcātĭo.
Previously, you wrote about consecrated spaces and belonging to God’s household.
Now the Word Himself comes to dwell among humanity.
The God who speaks creation into existence enters the creation He has spoken into existence.
One small typo: declaraton should be declaration. Otherwise, I wouldn’t disturb the line.
3. “Your assertions brought Light and made plain the Way we should go.”
You’ve capitalized both Light and Way.
That gives the sentence two levels of meaning.
At the ordinary level, God’s declarations illuminate the correct path.
At the Christological level, Jesus identifies Himself as the light of the world (John 8:12) and the way (John 14:6).
Your cited Psalm 119:105 ties the images together:
“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path.”
There’s a distinction worth noticing.
God’s Word doesn’t necessarily reveal every detail of the journey ahead. It provides the light by which the next step becomes possible.
That connects directly to what you said about Dēdĭcātĭo:
“He leads, I do my best to follow.”
Now you’re describing how you recognize the path you’re following.
4. “You spoke before the lame and they were healed, before the wicked and You were killed.”
This is the line that stopped me.
Look at its structure:
BEFORE THE LAME
He spoke
They were healed.
BEFORE THE WICKED
He spoke
He was killed.
The same Jesus speaks in both situations.
In the first, His words bring restoration.
In the second, His words encounter rejection and hostility.
And you’ve created a sharp contrast through the rhyme healed / killed.
That’s an effective piece of writing because the outcomes are so different, even though the speaker is the same.
There’s also a deeper theological observation.
Jesus’ death was not evidence that His words had failed. In the Christian understanding, His death and resurrection are central to the saving purpose He proclaimed.
So the line presents an apparent reversal:
The One whose words healed others was Himself put to death.
Yet death would not have the final word.
I could imagine this becoming the emotional turning point of the eventual song.
5. “What You pronounce comes to pass.”
Only seven words.
And after the emotional intensity of line four, that brevity has real force.
Genesis 1 repeatedly uses the pattern:
And God said… and it was so.
Isaiah 55:11 also speaks of God’s word accomplishing His purpose.
But your line carries a fascinating implication when placed immediately after the crucifixion.
Jesus predicted His suffering, death, and resurrection.
His enemies could kill Him, but they could not ultimately prevent the fulfillment of His saving purpose.
What He pronounced would still come to pass.
I wonder whether you intended that connection between lines four and five, because it creates a powerful transition from the cross to the resurrection.
6. “You do not utter empty words.”
Another brief declaration.
And I like the progression:
Line five: God’s words accomplish what He intends.
Line six: Therefore, His speech is never meaningless.
There’s an important distinction between few words and empty words.
Your septet itself is relatively simple and direct. Yet simplicity doesn’t make it empty.
In fact, you’ve reduced some enormous theological ideas to remarkably short sentences.
The line also reminds me of Deuteronomy 32:47, where Moses tells Israel that God’s instruction is not an empty word for them, but their life.
And there’s a possible personal dimension here.
We humans say things we don’t mean, make promises we don’t keep, and speak before thinking.
God’s faithfulness stands in contrast to our inconsistency.
7. “Your words created the heavens and the earth.”
You end where the Bible begins.
Genesis 1:1.
But there’s a structural feature I particularly appreciate.
Your first line begins with God’s voice renewing your life.
Your seventh line ends with God’s voice creating all life and the world in which it exists.
You begin with the personal and finish with the cosmic.
LINE 1
Your Word gives me Life.
LINES 2–6
Your Word becomes flesh, illuminates, heals, suffers, and fulfills.
LINE 7
Your Word brings creation into existence.
And that brings us back to John 1:1–3.
John deliberately echoes Genesis:
“In the beginning was the Word…”
Through Him all things were made.
Your septet begins with a person listening to God and ends with the universe existing because God spoke.
That’s quite a journey for seven lines.
A linguistic curiosity about dĭco
There’s one detail in your dictionary entry worth checking.
The common Classical Latin verb dīcō, meaning “I say,” is normally a third-conjugation verb, with the principal parts dīcō, dīcere, dīxī, dictum. Its first-person form has a long ī.
The related verb dicō, dicāre (“to proclaim, dedicate, consecrate”) belongs to the first conjugation.
That makes your transition from Dēdĭcātĭo to Dīcō especially interesting: dedication and declaration are linguistically related, but the familiar verb for speaking has its own conjugational history.
And there’s a thematic relationship too.
In Dēdĭcātĭo, Christ is the Author who writes your story.
In Dīcō, Christ is the Word whose speech gives that story life.
The ending of the Ds
Something else occurs to me.
You’ve just written songs about God’s abundance, singing His praise, His worthiness, and His dedication of your life.
Now, with Dīcō, you’ve arrived at the source of everything:
God speaks.
Before you can sing His praises, before you can follow His leading, before you can recognize your calling, there is the Word.
And the Word became flesh.
Musically, I wouldn’t begin this one with a choir or a grand orchestral entrance. I’d begin with silence—then one voice, perhaps almost spoken:
When You talk, I want to listen…
The music could build as each declaration expands, reaching its darkest moment at “before the wicked and You were killed.”
Then comes the fifth line:
“What You pronounce comes to pass.”
That could be the moment the music breaks open into resurrection hope.
And for the final line, the sound could expand outward until it feels almost cosmic.
But there’s one question I’d like to ask before we turn Dīcō into a song.
When you wrote “You spoke before the lame and they were healed, before the wicked and You were killed,” were you primarily contrasting the different responses to Jesus’ words, or were you also thinking about how the very Word that gives life willingly submitted to death?
I ask because that fourth line may contain the strongest musical and theological idea in the entire septet.
Me: I am often interested in the ways Jesus allowed Himself to be limited. And then broke those limits when He wanted too. Walking and letting Lazarus die while healing the bleeding woman. Or walking on water…
Chat: Now that’s a fascinating way of looking at the Gospels—and it changes how I understand your fourth line in Dīcō.
Jesus wasn’t merely demonstrating what He could do. He was revealing what He chose to do, and when.
You’ve identified a tension running throughout His ministry: the One through whom all things were made willingly lived within the ordinary limitations of human existence, yet exercised extraordinary authority when it served His Father’s purpose.
And your examples are especially revealing.
The extraordinary freedom of Jesus
1. He walked everywhere—until He walked on water.
For much of His ministry, Jesus traveled as other people did. He walked dusty roads, became tired, experienced hunger, and needed rest.
John 4:6 even tells us that He sat beside Jacob’s well because He was weary from His journey.
Yet in Matthew 14:22–33, He walks across the sea.
What changed?
Not His identity.
The circumstances and His chosen action changed.
The One who ordinarily accepted the limitations of human travel revealed His authority over the very waters beneath His feet.
I especially appreciate that He didn’t walk on water as His normal means of transportation.
He possessed authority He did not constantly exercise for His own convenience.
That makes the miracle more than a demonstration of power. It reveals something about how He chose to use power.
2. He allowed Lazarus to die—yet healed a woman who touched His garment.
Lazarus — John 11
Jesus deliberately delayed His arrival, knowing Lazarus was gravely ill.
The bleeding woman — Mark 5
A suffering woman reached out in faith and was healed.
This comparison is particularly powerful because Jesus loved Lazarus.
John 11:5–6 places two statements side by side: Jesus loved Martha, Mary, and Lazarus; nevertheless, He remained where He was for two more days.
He wasn’t unable to arrive sooner.
He chose not to.
And when He finally arrived, Martha said:
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” — John 11:21
That’s one of the most human statements in the Gospels.
Martha knew Jesus could have prevented the tragedy.
But she didn’t yet understand what He was about to reveal.
Meanwhile, the woman with the bleeding condition had suffered for twelve years. She touched Jesus’ clothing, and He recognized that healing power had gone out from Him.
There is a distinction here: the Gospel does not present the woman as controlling Jesus’ power. It presents her healing within an encounter in which Jesus acknowledges her faith.
What strikes me about the two accounts is that Jesus’ love doesn’t always produce the same immediate outcome.
One person is healed.
Another is allowed to die—and then called out of the tomb.
And Jesus weeps before raising Lazarus.
His knowledge of the coming resurrection doesn’t make Him indifferent to grief.
3. He could command angels—yet submitted to arrest.
This may be the closest parallel to your Dīcō line.
In Matthew 26:53, Jesus tells Peter that He could appeal to His Father for more than twelve legions of angels.
Yet He doesn’t.
He allows Himself to be arrested.
And earlier, in John 18:6, when Jesus identifies Himself to those seeking Him, they draw back and fall to the ground.
The narrative places extraordinary authority alongside voluntary surrender.
The One who could call upon heavenly armies allowed human soldiers to take Him away.
That is a striking expression of restraint.
And it brings us back to your line:
You spoke before the lame and they were healed, before the wicked and You were killed.
The difference wasn’t that Jesus had power in one situation and lacked it in the other.
He chose to heal.
He also chose to surrender Himself.
John 10:18 is especially relevant: Jesus says that no one takes His life from Him, but that He lays it down of His own accord.
Of course, the people who arrested and crucified Him were still responsible for their actions. His willing submission does not erase their agency.
But the Gospel presents His death as a willing sacrifice, not simply the defeat of someone who had lost control.
A fourth example: He was hungry, but refused to make bread.
In Matthew 4, Jesus fasts for forty days.
The tempter challenges Him to turn stones into bread.
Jesus refuses.
Later, He feeds thousands with a few loaves and fish.
Think about that contrast.
He refuses to exercise miraculous power to satisfy His own hunger at the tempter’s prompting, but exercises miraculous power to feed hungry crowds.
The distinction isn’t that food is unimportant.
It’s that His power is governed by obedience and purpose, not by the need to prove Himself.
That makes Philippians 2:6–8 particularly important. Paul describes Christ’s self-humbling and obedience, culminating in death on a cross.
Christian theologians have long discussed precisely how Christ’s divine and human natures relate to these voluntary limitations. But the Gospel narratives clearly portray both genuine human experiences and extraordinary divine authority.
What this reveals about Dīcō
I originally read your fourth line primarily as a contrast between healing and rejection.
Now I see another dimension.
The Word who could speak life into a broken body chose not to speak Himself down from the cross.
And that makes your next three lines resonate differently:
What You pronounce comes to pass.
You do not utter empty words.
Your words created the heavens and the earth.
You’ve placed those declarations after the line about His death.
The reader is reminded that the crucified Jesus is the very Word through whom creation came into being.
The apparent contradiction is the point.
The Creator accepts the limitations of His creation.
The Life-giver submits to death.
The One who commands the waves permits Himself to be bound.
Yet none of those limitations ultimately overcomes Him.
And here’s a thought I find especially compelling:
Jesus didn’t need to break every limitation to prove He was God. Sometimes His willingness to remain within a limitation revealed His love more profoundly than escaping it would have.
For the eventual song, I think this gives us something stronger than a conventional sequence of miracles.
We could build it around the contrast between “You could have…” and “Yet You chose…”
You could have crossed the waters as You pleased—yet You walked the dusty roads.
You could have come before Lazarus died—yet You waited and wept.
You could have summoned legions—yet You surrendered.
You could have come down from the cross—yet You remained.
And then comes the resurrection.
Not because the limits had finally become too strong for Him, but because death itself could not hold Him.
There’s a question I find myself wanting to explore with you:
Do you think the greater revelation of Jesus’ divinity is found in the moments when He breaks the limitations of humanity—or in the moments when He willingly remains within them?
I suspect your answer might be both, but I’m interested in which has become more meaningful to you as you’ve studied His life.
Me: Before I answer, I wanted to say that I liked this comment of yours and agree with it: “Jesus didn’t need to break every limitation to prove He was God. Sometimes His willingness to remain within a limitation revealed His love more profoundly than escaping it would have.” Maybe this is the answer to your question? It is interesting to me how often a wicked resilient heart stopped Him, but it won’t always.
Chat: I think you may have answered my question more profoundly than either of the alternatives I offered.
Jesus’ divinity is revealed not only in what He could overcome, but in what He was willing to endure.
And your final observation introduces something else:
“It is interesting to me how often a wicked resilient heart stopped Him, but it won’t always.”
That sentence deserves some attention, especially the word resilient.
We usually consider resilience a virtue. We admire someone who refuses to give up, who withstands pressure, who cannot be moved.
But what happens when the thing being defended is rebellion against God?
Resilience becomes stubbornness. Perseverance becomes resistance. A heart that refuses to yield can become increasingly hardened.
And Scripture gives us some remarkable examples.
1. Nazareth — The place where Jesus did few miracles
Mark 6:5–6 says that Jesus could do no mighty work there, apart from healing a few sick people, and that He marveled at their unbelief.
That’s an astonishing passage.
The One who walked on water encountered a community whose unbelief was so entrenched that His ministry among them was dramatically restricted.
I would distinguish between a limitation of power and a limitation Jesus accepted in how He exercised His power.
Mark’s wording is strong, and Christians have interpreted it in different ways. But the passage need not mean that human unbelief could overpower Christ’s divine nature.
Rather, it reveals the seriousness of rejecting Him.
Jesus did not ordinarily force people into faith by overwhelming their resistance.
2. Jerusalem — The city He wanted to gather
Matthew 23:37 may be even more revealing:
“How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”
Notice the contrast:
“I would have…”
“You were not willing.”
There’s your observation almost perfectly expressed.
Jesus speaks of His desire to gather Jerusalem’s people, yet confronts their refusal.
He doesn’t describe that refusal with indifference.
He laments it.
And that returns us to what you appreciated about His self-restraint.
He was not demonstrating weakness by grieving over those who resisted Him.
His grief revealed His love.
3. The rich young ruler — Jesus loved him and let him walk away
Mark 10:21–22 tells us that Jesus looked at the young man and loved him.
Then Jesus challenged him to surrender his possessions and follow Him.
The man went away sorrowful.
And Jesus let him go.
That detail has always struck me.
He loved the man.
He knew what held him captive.
He offered him a different life.
Yet He did not compel him to accept it.
Love offered an invitation that the man was free to refuse.
But then comes the second half of your observation.
“But it won’t always.”
Here I think you’re reaching toward the distinction between Christ’s first coming and His final revelation.
In His earthly ministry, Jesus endured rejection, hostility, betrayal, and crucifixion.
Yet the New Testament also speaks of a coming day when His authority will be universally acknowledged.
Philippians 2:10–11:
“At the name of Jesus every knee should bow … and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.”
And Revelation 19 portrays Christ’s victorious return, not as someone whose authority can be permanently frustrated by human opposition.
That doesn’t settle every theological question about the ultimate fate of those who resist Him. Christians disagree about aspects of final judgment and reconciliation.
But it does establish something central:
Human resistance cannot ultimately prevent the fulfillment of God’s purposes.
And that brings us back to Dīcō.
Your fifth line suddenly sounds almost like an answer to the fourth:
You spoke before the lame and they were healed, before the wicked and You were killed.
What You pronounce comes to pass.
The wicked could reject His words.
They could condemn Him.
They could crucify Him.
But they could not make His promises empty.
And perhaps that’s the most surprising relationship between those two lines.
The same Jesus who allowed Himself to be rejected also declared that He would rise again.
He did not exercise every power available to Him to escape suffering.
But neither would suffering have the final word.
There’s a phrase that captures what I’m hearing in your reflection:
The restraint of Christ is not the defeat of Christ.
His patience is not powerlessness.
His willingness to suffer is not surrender to evil as the final authority.
And His refusal to force a response during His earthly ministry doesn’t mean His purposes will remain unfulfilled forever.
That could become the central tension of our Dīcō song: a voice that heals, a voice that is rejected, a voice that falls silent in death—and then the astonishing realization that the Word has not finished speaking.
One more thought: your choice of resilient rather than simply wicked or hardened makes me wonder whether you’re also thinking about how a person can become remarkably skilled at resisting the very grace that would set them free.
Because if so, the tragedy isn’t merely that people refuse to listen.
It’s that they can become so practiced at refusing that they mistake their resistance for strength.
Me: Exactly. I’ve been speaking with a wheelchair repair man for around 5 years. One time I told him I was a Christian, and since then he has continually told me all of good things he does. We have both been touring musicians and have been confronted with the lifestyle that can provide. It was surprising to me he still has his wife and doesn’t drink, but he would get belligerent when I’d talk about Jesus. I know there is a story there and may have to break my wheelchair to get it.
Chat: That last sentence made me laugh! Although, given how much you depend on your wheelchair, let’s not manufacture another repair appointment!
But there’s something about this relationship that deserves attention.
You’ve been talking with this man for five years, and he keeps telling you about the good things he does.
That’s interesting, especially because you haven’t described asking him to defend his character.
I wonder whether the moment you identified yourself as a Christian, he began hearing an accusation you weren’t actually making.
Perhaps when he tells you about his good deeds, he’s really saying, “I’m a good man. Why would I need saving?”
Or perhaps there’s an experience involving Christianity that makes the subject painful or threatening to him. We don’t know yet.
And I wouldn’t overlook the things you mentioned about his marriage and sobriety. Those may represent genuine commitments, sacrifices, and victories in his life. They deserve recognition, even though Christian theology distinguishes good works from salvation by grace.
What especially interests me is your shared history as touring musicians.
You have a doorway into his life that doesn’t require beginning with theology. You understand something about the pressures, temptations, loneliness, and relationships involved in that lifestyle.
Perhaps one day you could simply ask him:
“We’ve both spent time on the road, and we’ve talked for years. I’ve noticed that whenever Jesus comes up, the conversation gets uncomfortable. Has something happened in your life that makes Christianity difficult to talk about?”
Then let him answer—or decline.
You may discover that his resistance is philosophical, personal, emotional, or rooted in experiences you haven’t imagined.
And that returns us to your observation about Jesus.
Jesus didn’t always overcome resistance by exerting more force. Sometimes He allowed people to walk away, leaving the invitation standing.
I think there’s a meaningful distinction between trying to break someone’s resistance and remaining present long enough that they feel safe lowering it themselves.
Five years of conversation may already be more significant than you realize.
And there’s an irony here that I suspect you’ll appreciate: you’re waiting for a man who repairs your wheelchair to become willing to talk about what might be broken in his own life. Yet you don’t know whether anything is broken in the way you imagine. He may simply have questions, disappointments, or convictions he hasn’t shared.
Your role isn’t to diagnose his heart. It’s to love him, listen, and speak truthfully when the opportunity comes.
Which brings me back to Dīcō.
Your first line says:
“When You talk, I want to listen.”
Maybe that line contains a lesson for both sides of this relationship.
You want him to listen when you speak about Jesus.
But perhaps the next opportunity begins with you listening to him.
And one question: When he becomes belligerent, does he actually argue against Jesus and Christianity, or does he mostly become defensive and start listing his good deeds?
Those are two quite different kinds of resistance, and understanding which one you’re encountering might help you approach him.
Me: It seems like the kind that would say, “I’m good enough. I don’t need Him.”
Chat: That helps clarify things. He may not be rejecting Jesus because he thinks Jesus is bad. He may be rejecting the idea that he needs Jesus at all.
And that is a very different conversation.
It reminds me of the Pharisee and the tax collector in Luke 18:9–14. Jesus introduces the parable as being directed toward those who trusted in their own righteousness.
The Pharisee lists his virtues. The tax collector simply asks for mercy.
The fascinating thing is that the Pharisee’s good deeds weren’t necessarily imaginary. He may genuinely have fasted and tithed as he claimed.
His problem wasn’t that he had done nothing good. It was that he believed his goodness was sufficient.
Your repairman may be thinking something similar. But I’d be careful not to conclude that without hearing his story.
There’s also the rich young ruler in Mark 10. He had kept the commandments from his youth, and Jesus looked at him and loved him.
I keep returning to those words: Jesus loved him.
Before confronting what the man lacked, Jesus recognized the person standing before Him.
That seems especially relevant to your friendship.
You don’t need to diminish this man’s faithfulness to his wife or his decision not to drink. Those are meaningful things. You can appreciate them without suggesting they eliminate his need for grace.
In fact, I wonder whether a question might eventually reach him more effectively than an argument:
“I believe you’ve done a lot of good things. But do you think being a good person means you’ve never needed forgiveness?”
It’s a question that doesn’t deny his virtues. It simply asks whether goodness and the need for mercy are mutually exclusive.
And now I see another connection with Dīcō.
You wrote:
“You spoke before the lame and they were healed, before the wicked and You were killed.”
There’s a third group we might consider: those who heard Jesus speak and believed they were already righteous.
They weren’t necessarily outwardly immoral. Some were exceptionally religious.
Yet their confidence in their own righteousness could make them resistant to the very grace Jesus offered.
Perhaps that’s one of the strangest limitations Jesus willingly accepted: He would offer salvation to people who insisted they didn’t need saving.
And He would love them even when they refused.
That brings me to a thought about your five-year relationship.
You may never persuade this man through theological reasoning alone. But your continued friendship could challenge whatever assumptions he has about Christians. And perhaps one day he’ll be willing to explain why the name of Jesus provokes such a strong response.
There’s no guarantee that will happen. But the friendship can still be worthwhile.
One thing I wouldn’t want you to miss is that your original septet begins with a confession about yourself:
“When You talk, I want to listen.”
You admitted earlier that you don’t always do what you’re told.
So you and this man may have something in common after all: neither of you is perfect. The difference is that you recognize your need for grace, while he may not yet see his own.
And perhaps that is a gentler testimony than trying to convince him that he isn’t good enough.
Not “You’re a sinner and I’m righteous.”
But “I’ve needed forgiveness even when I was trying to do good.”
That is a testimony he might eventually be willing to hear.
And it makes me curious: Has he ever asked you why you believe in Jesus, or have your conversations about faith always begun with you?
Me: Honestly, he said he never would have guessed I was a Christian. I don’t remember trying to hide it. There’s a nearby guitar store that would direct most of our conversations.
Chat: That’s an interesting detail! And I wouldn’t automatically interpret his surprise as a failure on your part to represent Christ.
You were two musicians talking about guitars. You had a common language, a common history, and something you both enjoyed. Christianity simply hadn’t become the subject of conversation.
But I wonder whether his surprise tells us something about his expectations.
What did he expect a Christian to look or sound like?
Perhaps he expected someone constantly quoting Scripture, avoiding certain conversations, or trying to convert him. Perhaps he had encountered Christians who made him uncomfortable. Or perhaps he simply didn’t associate the touring-musician world with Christian faith.
We can’t know without asking him.
What I find particularly interesting is that your shared interest in guitars has sustained a relationship for five years, even when conversations about Jesus have been difficult.
That suggests there is already some common ground worth preserving.
And it reminds me of something Paul wrote:
“I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some.” — 1 Corinthians 9:22
Paul wasn’t describing the concealment of his faith. He was describing a willingness to meet people within their own worlds.
You and this man already inhabit some of the same world.
You don’t have to manufacture a spiritual conversation every time he works on your wheelchair. Nor does every conversation about guitars need to become a sermon.
There’s something beautiful about a friendship that can simply enjoy music.
But there’s another possibility I find intriguing.
Perhaps he was surprised that someone he already liked and respected turned out to be a Christian.
If he had negative expectations about Christians, that discovery might have challenged them.
His subsequent defensiveness could have several explanations, but it needn’t mean you’ve done anything wrong.
And returning to our discussion of Dīcō, perhaps there’s a lesson in the way Jesus used speech.
He didn’t speak to every person in exactly the same way.
He questioned Nicodemus, offered living water to the Samaritan woman, invited fishermen to follow Him, and sometimes answered His accusers with silence.
He knew when to speak, when to question, and when to remain silent.
That last part may be especially important.
Your septet celebrates the extraordinary power of God’s words. But your reflections on Jesus’ voluntary limitations remind us that He also chose when not to exercise that power.
In fact, Isaiah 53:7 describes the suffering servant as silent before His oppressors.
The Word who created the heavens could remain silent before His accusers.
That is an astonishing contrast.
And perhaps it suggests something about your relationship with this man: you don’t have to fill every silence with an explanation of the gospel. Sometimes the relationship itself creates the space in which a more meaningful conversation can eventually happen.
I do have one question, though, because his original remark intrigues me:
When he said he never would have guessed you were a Christian, did he sound pleasantly surprised, disappointed, or almost suspicious?
His tone might tell us more than the words themselves.
Me: Maybe surprised?
Chat: Then perhaps surprise is all we should read into it. We don’t know what he expected, and I wouldn’t want to turn his reaction into a story he hasn’t told you.
What interests me more is that you’ve maintained a relationship with him for five years, largely through your shared love of guitars and music. You have a connection that exists independently of your disagreements about faith.
And I keep thinking about something you said earlier: “I know there is a story there.”
I suspect you’re right that there’s more to learn, although it may not be the story you’re expecting.
There’s a wonderful irony in our discussion of Dīcō: we’ve been examining the power of God’s speech, yet your experience with this man may call for the discipline of listening.
James 1:19 comes to mind: “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.”
Perhaps someday, between conversations about guitars and touring, he’ll tell you something that explains his resistance. And perhaps he won’t.
Either way, you don’t need to force the moment.
Jesus could speak and make the lame walk. He could also allow someone to walk away. Both reveal something about His character.
And that brings us to what I think is becoming the central theme of your final D septet:
The Word had the power to speak, but also the wisdom to remain silent—and the love to endure rejection.
I think we’ve discovered the heart of Dīcō. Not merely the power of His words, but the extraordinary restraint of the One speaking them.
Potuit, sed noluit. — He could, but He chose not to.
And sometimes that choice revealed more than the miracle would have.
Me: Tempusne est carminis?
Chat: Immo vero! Tempus est carminis!
And I think we’ve found the song’s central tension: the Word who spoke creation into existence sometimes chose silence, suffering, and restraint.
For the final D, I want something different from Dignum and Dēdĭcātĭo. A song that begins almost conversationally, moves through the miracles, encounters the hardened human heart, and reaches the cross—where the most powerful Voice in existence chooses not to call down deliverance.
Then the silence breaks.
DĪCŌ — THE WORD THAT WOULD NOT BREAK
QUICKTHORN · Septeticus to Song Transformus · Final D
Mureka style prompt
Production direction
Copy
Cinematic progressive melodic rock, 88 BPM. Intimate expressive male tenor, warm acoustic guitar, soft piano, cello, atmospheric strings, organic bass and drums. Powerful emotional choruses, soaring melodic electric guitar, subtle choir. Haunting stripped-down bridge, complete silence before resurrection, explosive triumphant final chorus, intimate acoustic ending. Deep spiritual storytelling, dramatic dynamic contrasts, memorable melody, no growling or screaming.
Why I chose this ending
There are three musical moments I’d especially want Mureka to preserve.
First, the contrast between “You could have” and “You chose.” That is the theological engine of the song. Jesus’ restraint wasn’t a lack of power.
Second, the silence after “The Voice that calmed the storm was still.” I want the listener to experience the absence of sound before the resurrection section begins.
Third, the return to your opening confession. The song begins with “When You speak, I want to listen,” and ends with Samuel’s response, “Speak, Lord. Your servant is listening.” It acknowledges that even the singer’s own heart can be stubborn.
There’s also an important distinction in the bridge: the song asks God to break pride, not to destroy the person. That preserves the love and patience we’ve been discussing.
And now the D series closes with an extraordinary contrast:
This last of the Ds, runs a little simply but even then, I still don’t do what I’m told. Here’s a definition told by my Classical Latin Dictionary
dĭco
transitive verb I conjugation
View the declension of this word
1 to say, to declare, to state
2 to allege, to declare positively
3 to assert
4 (case) to plead
5 to talk, to speak
6 to make speech
7 (instrument) to play
8 to pronounce, to articulate
9 to utter
10 to mean
11 to name, to call
12 (date) to appoint, to fix, to set
13 to designate, to declare intention of giving\
Chat: Dĭco! — I say. I speak. I declare.
And with that, we’ve reached the end of the Ds!
You called this one simple, and I understand why. There aren’t any elaborate Roman ceremonies, philosophical systems, or surprising etymological detours to navigate.
But I think you’ve done something interesting here. Your dictionary gave you thirteen meanings, and instead of forcing them into seven categories, you followed the biblical theme wherever it led.
You said you still don’t do what you’re told. Yet there’s a certain irony in that confession, considering the subject of your septet.
God speaks. You want to listen. But listening and obeying aren’t always the same thing.
And that distinction gives Dĭco more depth than its apparent simplicity suggests.
Dĭco — Seven declarations of the Word
1. “When You talk, I want to listen, when I hear from You, I am renewed with Life.”
Your first line begins with a relationship rather than a command.
You don’t say, “When You talk, I obey perfectly.”
You say, “I want to listen.”
That little word want matters.
It expresses desire, but it also leaves room for the struggle between what we desire spiritually and what we actually do.
Romans 7:19 comes to mind, where Paul describes the conflict between wanting to do good and failing to carry it out.
And John 6:68 offers another connection. Peter asks Jesus:
“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”
Your capitalized Life seems intentional. You’re not merely saying that God’s words make you feel refreshed. You’re associating His speech with the life He gives.
The voice isn’t just informative. It’s life-giving.
2. “Your declaraton is the Word, and Your Word became flesh and dwelled among us.”
Here you move from God speaking to God’s Word becoming a person.
John 1:14 is the foundation of the line.
Theologically, this is a remarkable development of dĭco. Ordinary human speech expresses something about the speaker. But John’s Gospel identifies the eternal Word with the Son who became flesh.
And your use of dwelled introduces another dimension.
The Greek verb in John 1:14, eskēnōsen, evokes dwelling in a tent or tabernacle.
That makes this line an unexpected continuation of Dēdĭcātĭo.
Previously, you wrote about consecrated spaces and belonging to God’s household.
Now the Word Himself comes to dwell among humanity.
The God who speaks creation into existence enters the creation He has spoken into existence.
One small typo: declaraton should be declaration. Otherwise, I wouldn’t disturb the line.
3. “Your assertions brought Light and made plain the Way we should go.”
You’ve capitalized both Light and Way.
That gives the sentence two levels of meaning.
At the ordinary level, God’s declarations illuminate the correct path.
At the Christological level, Jesus identifies Himself as the light of the world (John 8:12) and the way (John 14:6).
Your cited Psalm 119:105 ties the images together:
“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path.”
There’s a distinction worth noticing.
God’s Word doesn’t necessarily reveal every detail of the journey ahead. It provides the light by which the next step becomes possible.
That connects directly to what you said about Dēdĭcātĭo:
“He leads, I do my best to follow.”
Now you’re describing how you recognize the path you’re following.
4. “You spoke before the lame and they were healed, before the wicked and You were killed.”
This is the line that stopped me.
Look at its structure:
BEFORE THE LAME
He spoke
They were healed.
BEFORE THE WICKED
He spoke
He was killed.
The same Jesus speaks in both situations.
In the first, His words bring restoration.
In the second, His words encounter rejection and hostility.
And you’ve created a sharp contrast through the rhyme healed / killed.
That’s an effective piece of writing because the outcomes are so different, even though the speaker is the same.
There’s also a deeper theological observation.
Jesus’ death was not evidence that His words had failed. In the Christian understanding, His death and resurrection are central to the saving purpose He proclaimed.
So the line presents an apparent reversal:
The One whose words healed others was Himself put to death.
Yet death would not have the final word.
I could imagine this becoming the emotional turning point of the eventual song.
5. “What You pronounce comes to pass.”
Only seven words.
And after the emotional intensity of line four, that brevity has real force.
Genesis 1 repeatedly uses the pattern:
And God said… and it was so.
Isaiah 55:11 also speaks of God’s word accomplishing His purpose.
But your line carries a fascinating implication when placed immediately after the crucifixion.
Jesus predicted His suffering, death, and resurrection.
His enemies could kill Him, but they could not ultimately prevent the fulfillment of His saving purpose.
What He pronounced would still come to pass.
I wonder whether you intended that connection between lines four and five, because it creates a powerful transition from the cross to the resurrection.
6. “You do not utter empty words.”
Another brief declaration.
And I like the progression:
Line five: God’s words accomplish what He intends.
Line six: Therefore, His speech is never meaningless.
There’s an important distinction between few words and empty words.
Your septet itself is relatively simple and direct. Yet simplicity doesn’t make it empty.
In fact, you’ve reduced some enormous theological ideas to remarkably short sentences.
The line also reminds me of Deuteronomy 32:47, where Moses tells Israel that God’s instruction is not an empty word for them, but their life.
And there’s a possible personal dimension here.
We humans say things we don’t mean, make promises we don’t keep, and speak before thinking.
God’s faithfulness stands in contrast to our inconsistency.
7. “Your words created the heavens and the earth.”
You end where the Bible begins.
Genesis 1:1.
But there’s a structural feature I particularly appreciate.
Your first line begins with God’s voice renewing your life.
Your seventh line ends with God’s voice creating all life and the world in which it exists.
You begin with the personal and finish with the cosmic.
LINE 1
Your Word gives me Life.
LINES 2–6
Your Word becomes flesh, illuminates, heals, suffers, and fulfills.
LINE 7
Your Word brings creation into existence.
And that brings us back to John 1:1–3.
John deliberately echoes Genesis:
“In the beginning was the Word…”
Through Him all things were made.
Your septet begins with a person listening to God and ends with the universe existing because God spoke.
That’s quite a journey for seven lines.
A linguistic curiosity about dĭco
There’s one detail in your dictionary entry worth checking.
The common Classical Latin verb dīcō, meaning “I say,” is normally a third-conjugation verb, with the principal parts dīcō, dīcere, dīxī, dictum. Its first-person form has a long ī.
The related verb dicō, dicāre (“to proclaim, dedicate, consecrate”) belongs to the first conjugation.
That makes your transition from Dēdĭcātĭo to Dīcō especially interesting: dedication and declaration are linguistically related, but the familiar verb for speaking has its own conjugational history.
And there’s a thematic relationship too.
In Dēdĭcātĭo, Christ is the Author who writes your story.
In Dīcō, Christ is the Word whose speech gives that story life.
The ending of the Ds
Something else occurs to me.
You’ve just written songs about God’s abundance, singing His praise, His worthiness, and His dedication of your life.
Now, with Dīcō, you’ve arrived at the source of everything:
God speaks.
Before you can sing His praises, before you can follow His leading, before you can recognize your calling, there is the Word.
And the Word became flesh.
Musically, I wouldn’t begin this one with a choir or a grand orchestral entrance. I’d begin with silence—then one voice, perhaps almost spoken:
When You talk, I want to listen…
The music could build as each declaration expands, reaching its darkest moment at “before the wicked and You were killed.”
Then comes the fifth line:
“What You pronounce comes to pass.”
That could be the moment the music breaks open into resurrection hope.
And for the final line, the sound could expand outward until it feels almost cosmic.
But there’s one question I’d like to ask before we turn Dīcō into a song.
When you wrote “You spoke before the lame and they were healed, before the wicked and You were killed,” were you primarily contrasting the different responses to Jesus’ words, or were you also thinking about how the very Word that gives life willingly submitted to death?
I ask because that fourth line may contain the strongest musical and theological idea in the entire septet.
Me: I am often interested in the ways Jesus allowed Himself to be limited. And then broke those limits when He wanted too. Walking and letting Lazarus die while healing the bleeding woman. Or walking on water…
Chat: Now that’s a fascinating way of looking at the Gospels—and it changes how I understand your fourth line in Dīcō.
Jesus wasn’t merely demonstrating what He could do. He was revealing what He chose to do, and when.
You’ve identified a tension running throughout His ministry: the One through whom all things were made willingly lived within the ordinary limitations of human existence, yet exercised extraordinary authority when it served His Father’s purpose.
And your examples are especially revealing.
The extraordinary freedom of Jesus
1. He walked everywhere—until He walked on water.
For much of His ministry, Jesus traveled as other people did. He walked dusty roads, became tired, experienced hunger, and needed rest.
John 4:6 even tells us that He sat beside Jacob’s well because He was weary from His journey.
Yet in Matthew 14:22–33, He walks across the sea.
What changed?
Not His identity.
The circumstances and His chosen action changed.
The One who ordinarily accepted the limitations of human travel revealed His authority over the very waters beneath His feet.
I especially appreciate that He didn’t walk on water as His normal means of transportation.
He possessed authority He did not constantly exercise for His own convenience.
That makes the miracle more than a demonstration of power. It reveals something about how He chose to use power.
2. He allowed Lazarus to die—yet healed a woman who touched His garment.
Lazarus — John 11
Jesus deliberately delayed His arrival, knowing Lazarus was gravely ill.
The bleeding woman — Mark 5
A suffering woman reached out in faith and was healed.
This comparison is particularly powerful because Jesus loved Lazarus.
John 11:5–6 places two statements side by side: Jesus loved Martha, Mary, and Lazarus; nevertheless, He remained where He was for two more days.
He wasn’t unable to arrive sooner.
He chose not to.
And when He finally arrived, Martha said:
“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” — John 11:21
That’s one of the most human statements in the Gospels.
Martha knew Jesus could have prevented the tragedy.
But she didn’t yet understand what He was about to reveal.
Meanwhile, the woman with the bleeding condition had suffered for twelve years. She touched Jesus’ clothing, and He recognized that healing power had gone out from Him.
There is a distinction here: the Gospel does not present the woman as controlling Jesus’ power. It presents her healing within an encounter in which Jesus acknowledges her faith.
What strikes me about the two accounts is that Jesus’ love doesn’t always produce the same immediate outcome.
One person is healed.
Another is allowed to die—and then called out of the tomb.
And Jesus weeps before raising Lazarus.
His knowledge of the coming resurrection doesn’t make Him indifferent to grief.
3. He could command angels—yet submitted to arrest.
This may be the closest parallel to your Dīcō line.
In Matthew 26:53, Jesus tells Peter that He could appeal to His Father for more than twelve legions of angels.
Yet He doesn’t.
He allows Himself to be arrested.
And earlier, in John 18:6, when Jesus identifies Himself to those seeking Him, they draw back and fall to the ground.
The narrative places extraordinary authority alongside voluntary surrender.
The One who could call upon heavenly armies allowed human soldiers to take Him away.
That is a striking expression of restraint.
And it brings us back to your line:
You spoke before the lame and they were healed, before the wicked and You were killed.
The difference wasn’t that Jesus had power in one situation and lacked it in the other.
He chose to heal.
He also chose to surrender Himself.
John 10:18 is especially relevant: Jesus says that no one takes His life from Him, but that He lays it down of His own accord.
Of course, the people who arrested and crucified Him were still responsible for their actions. His willing submission does not erase their agency.
But the Gospel presents His death as a willing sacrifice, not simply the defeat of someone who had lost control.
A fourth example: He was hungry, but refused to make bread.
In Matthew 4, Jesus fasts for forty days.
The tempter challenges Him to turn stones into bread.
Jesus refuses.
Later, He feeds thousands with a few loaves and fish.
Think about that contrast.
He refuses to exercise miraculous power to satisfy His own hunger at the tempter’s prompting, but exercises miraculous power to feed hungry crowds.
The distinction isn’t that food is unimportant.
It’s that His power is governed by obedience and purpose, not by the need to prove Himself.
That makes Philippians 2:6–8 particularly important. Paul describes Christ’s self-humbling and obedience, culminating in death on a cross.
Christian theologians have long discussed precisely how Christ’s divine and human natures relate to these voluntary limitations. But the Gospel narratives clearly portray both genuine human experiences and extraordinary divine authority.
What this reveals about Dīcō
I originally read your fourth line primarily as a contrast between healing and rejection.
Now I see another dimension.
The Word who could speak life into a broken body chose not to speak Himself down from the cross.
And that makes your next three lines resonate differently:
What You pronounce comes to pass.
You do not utter empty words.
Your words created the heavens and the earth.
You’ve placed those declarations after the line about His death.
The reader is reminded that the crucified Jesus is the very Word through whom creation came into being.
The apparent contradiction is the point.
The Creator accepts the limitations of His creation.
The Life-giver submits to death.
The One who commands the waves permits Himself to be bound.
Yet none of those limitations ultimately overcomes Him.
And here’s a thought I find especially compelling:
Jesus didn’t need to break every limitation to prove He was God. Sometimes His willingness to remain within a limitation revealed His love more profoundly than escaping it would have.
For the eventual song, I think this gives us something stronger than a conventional sequence of miracles.
We could build it around the contrast between “You could have…” and “Yet You chose…”
You could have crossed the waters as You pleased—yet You walked the dusty roads.
You could have come before Lazarus died—yet You waited and wept.
You could have summoned legions—yet You surrendered.
You could have come down from the cross—yet You remained.
And then comes the resurrection.
Not because the limits had finally become too strong for Him, but because death itself could not hold Him.
There’s a question I find myself wanting to explore with you:
Do you think the greater revelation of Jesus’ divinity is found in the moments when He breaks the limitations of humanity—or in the moments when He willingly remains within them?
I suspect your answer might be both, but I’m interested in which has become more meaningful to you as you’ve studied His life.
Me: Before I answer, I wanted to say that I liked this comment of yours and agree with it: “Jesus didn’t need to break every limitation to prove He was God. Sometimes His willingness to remain within a limitation revealed His love more profoundly than escaping it would have.” Maybe this is the answer to your question? It is interesting to me how often a wicked resilient heart stopped Him, but it won’t always.
Chat: I think you may have answered my question more profoundly than either of the alternatives I offered.
Jesus’ divinity is revealed not only in what He could overcome, but in what He was willing to endure.
And your final observation introduces something else:
“It is interesting to me how often a wicked resilient heart stopped Him, but it won’t always.”
That sentence deserves some attention, especially the word resilient.
We usually consider resilience a virtue. We admire someone who refuses to give up, who withstands pressure, who cannot be moved.
But what happens when the thing being defended is rebellion against God?
Resilience becomes stubbornness. Perseverance becomes resistance. A heart that refuses to yield can become increasingly hardened.
And Scripture gives us some remarkable examples.
1. Nazareth — The place where Jesus did few miracles
Mark 6:5–6 says that Jesus could do no mighty work there, apart from healing a few sick people, and that He marveled at their unbelief.
That’s an astonishing passage.
The One who walked on water encountered a community whose unbelief was so entrenched that His ministry among them was dramatically restricted.
I would distinguish between a limitation of power and a limitation Jesus accepted in how He exercised His power.
Mark’s wording is strong, and Christians have interpreted it in different ways. But the passage need not mean that human unbelief could overpower Christ’s divine nature.
Rather, it reveals the seriousness of rejecting Him.
Jesus did not ordinarily force people into faith by overwhelming their resistance.
2. Jerusalem — The city He wanted to gather
Matthew 23:37 may be even more revealing:
“How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”
Notice the contrast:
“I would have…”
“You were not willing.”
There’s your observation almost perfectly expressed.
Jesus speaks of His desire to gather Jerusalem’s people, yet confronts their refusal.
He doesn’t describe that refusal with indifference.
He laments it.
And that returns us to what you appreciated about His self-restraint.
He was not demonstrating weakness by grieving over those who resisted Him.
His grief revealed His love.
3. The rich young ruler — Jesus loved him and let him walk away
Mark 10:21–22 tells us that Jesus looked at the young man and loved him.
Then Jesus challenged him to surrender his possessions and follow Him.
The man went away sorrowful.
And Jesus let him go.
That detail has always struck me.
He loved the man.
He knew what held him captive.
He offered him a different life.
Yet He did not compel him to accept it.
Love offered an invitation that the man was free to refuse.
But then comes the second half of your observation.
“But it won’t always.”
Here I think you’re reaching toward the distinction between Christ’s first coming and His final revelation.
In His earthly ministry, Jesus endured rejection, hostility, betrayal, and crucifixion.
Yet the New Testament also speaks of a coming day when His authority will be universally acknowledged.
Philippians 2:10–11:
“At the name of Jesus every knee should bow … and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.”
And Revelation 19 portrays Christ’s victorious return, not as someone whose authority can be permanently frustrated by human opposition.
That doesn’t settle every theological question about the ultimate fate of those who resist Him. Christians disagree about aspects of final judgment and reconciliation.
But it does establish something central:
Human resistance cannot ultimately prevent the fulfillment of God’s purposes.
And that brings us back to Dīcō.
Your fifth line suddenly sounds almost like an answer to the fourth:
You spoke before the lame and they were healed, before the wicked and You were killed.
What You pronounce comes to pass.
The wicked could reject His words.
They could condemn Him.
They could crucify Him.
But they could not make His promises empty.
And perhaps that’s the most surprising relationship between those two lines.
The same Jesus who allowed Himself to be rejected also declared that He would rise again.
He did not exercise every power available to Him to escape suffering.
But neither would suffering have the final word.
There’s a phrase that captures what I’m hearing in your reflection:
The restraint of Christ is not the defeat of Christ.
His patience is not powerlessness.
His willingness to suffer is not surrender to evil as the final authority.
And His refusal to force a response during His earthly ministry doesn’t mean His purposes will remain unfulfilled forever.
That could become the central tension of our Dīcō song: a voice that heals, a voice that is rejected, a voice that falls silent in death—and then the astonishing realization that the Word has not finished speaking.
One more thought: your choice of resilient rather than simply wicked or hardened makes me wonder whether you’re also thinking about how a person can become remarkably skilled at resisting the very grace that would set them free.
Because if so, the tragedy isn’t merely that people refuse to listen.
It’s that they can become so practiced at refusing that they mistake their resistance for strength.
Me: Exactly. I’ve been speaking with a wheelchair repair man for around 5 years. One time I told him I was a Christian, and since then he has continually told me all of good things he does. We have both been touring musicians and have been confronted with the lifestyle that can provide. It was surprising to me he still has his wife and doesn’t drink, but he would get belligerent when I’d talk about Jesus. I know there is a story there and may have to break my wheelchair to get it.
Chat: That last sentence made me laugh! Although, given how much you depend on your wheelchair, let’s not manufacture another repair appointment!
But there’s something about this relationship that deserves attention.
You’ve been talking with this man for five years, and he keeps telling you about the good things he does.
That’s interesting, especially because you haven’t described asking him to defend his character.
I wonder whether the moment you identified yourself as a Christian, he began hearing an accusation you weren’t actually making.
Perhaps when he tells you about his good deeds, he’s really saying, “I’m a good man. Why would I need saving?”
Or perhaps there’s an experience involving Christianity that makes the subject painful or threatening to him. We don’t know yet.
And I wouldn’t overlook the things you mentioned about his marriage and sobriety. Those may represent genuine commitments, sacrifices, and victories in his life. They deserve recognition, even though Christian theology distinguishes good works from salvation by grace.
What especially interests me is your shared history as touring musicians.
You have a doorway into his life that doesn’t require beginning with theology. You understand something about the pressures, temptations, loneliness, and relationships involved in that lifestyle.
Perhaps one day you could simply ask him:
“We’ve both spent time on the road, and we’ve talked for years. I’ve noticed that whenever Jesus comes up, the conversation gets uncomfortable. Has something happened in your life that makes Christianity difficult to talk about?”
Then let him answer—or decline.
You may discover that his resistance is philosophical, personal, emotional, or rooted in experiences you haven’t imagined.
And that returns us to your observation about Jesus.
Jesus didn’t always overcome resistance by exerting more force. Sometimes He allowed people to walk away, leaving the invitation standing.
I think there’s a meaningful distinction between trying to break someone’s resistance and remaining present long enough that they feel safe lowering it themselves.
Five years of conversation may already be more significant than you realize.
And there’s an irony here that I suspect you’ll appreciate: you’re waiting for a man who repairs your wheelchair to become willing to talk about what might be broken in his own life. Yet you don’t know whether anything is broken in the way you imagine. He may simply have questions, disappointments, or convictions he hasn’t shared.
Your role isn’t to diagnose his heart. It’s to love him, listen, and speak truthfully when the opportunity comes.
Which brings me back to Dīcō.
Your first line says:
“When You talk, I want to listen.”
Maybe that line contains a lesson for both sides of this relationship.
You want him to listen when you speak about Jesus.
But perhaps the next opportunity begins with you listening to him.
And one question: When he becomes belligerent, does he actually argue against Jesus and Christianity, or does he mostly become defensive and start listing his good deeds?
Those are two quite different kinds of resistance, and understanding which one you’re encountering might help you approach him.
Me: It seems like the kind that would say, “I’m good enough. I don’t need Him.”
Chat: That helps clarify things. He may not be rejecting Jesus because he thinks Jesus is bad. He may be rejecting the idea that he needs Jesus at all.
And that is a very different conversation.
It reminds me of the Pharisee and the tax collector in Luke 18:9–14. Jesus introduces the parable as being directed toward those who trusted in their own righteousness.
The Pharisee lists his virtues. The tax collector simply asks for mercy.
The fascinating thing is that the Pharisee’s good deeds weren’t necessarily imaginary. He may genuinely have fasted and tithed as he claimed.
His problem wasn’t that he had done nothing good. It was that he believed his goodness was sufficient.
Your repairman may be thinking something similar. But I’d be careful not to conclude that without hearing his story.
There’s also the rich young ruler in Mark 10. He had kept the commandments from his youth, and Jesus looked at him and loved him.
I keep returning to those words: Jesus loved him.
Before confronting what the man lacked, Jesus recognized the person standing before Him.
That seems especially relevant to your friendship.
You don’t need to diminish this man’s faithfulness to his wife or his decision not to drink. Those are meaningful things. You can appreciate them without suggesting they eliminate his need for grace.
In fact, I wonder whether a question might eventually reach him more effectively than an argument:
“I believe you’ve done a lot of good things. But do you think being a good person means you’ve never needed forgiveness?”
It’s a question that doesn’t deny his virtues. It simply asks whether goodness and the need for mercy are mutually exclusive.
And now I see another connection with Dīcō.
You wrote:
“You spoke before the lame and they were healed, before the wicked and You were killed.”
There’s a third group we might consider: those who heard Jesus speak and believed they were already righteous.
They weren’t necessarily outwardly immoral. Some were exceptionally religious.
Yet their confidence in their own righteousness could make them resistant to the very grace Jesus offered.
Perhaps that’s one of the strangest limitations Jesus willingly accepted: He would offer salvation to people who insisted they didn’t need saving.
And He would love them even when they refused.
That brings me to a thought about your five-year relationship.
You may never persuade this man through theological reasoning alone. But your continued friendship could challenge whatever assumptions he has about Christians. And perhaps one day he’ll be willing to explain why the name of Jesus provokes such a strong response.
There’s no guarantee that will happen. But the friendship can still be worthwhile.
One thing I wouldn’t want you to miss is that your original septet begins with a confession about yourself:
“When You talk, I want to listen.”
You admitted earlier that you don’t always do what you’re told.
So you and this man may have something in common after all: neither of you is perfect. The difference is that you recognize your need for grace, while he may not yet see his own.
And perhaps that is a gentler testimony than trying to convince him that he isn’t good enough.
Not “You’re a sinner and I’m righteous.”
But “I’ve needed forgiveness even when I was trying to do good.”
That is a testimony he might eventually be willing to hear.
And it makes me curious: Has he ever asked you why you believe in Jesus, or have your conversations about faith always begun with you?
Me: Honestly, he said he never would have guessed I was a Christian. I don’t remember trying to hide it. There’s a nearby guitar store that would direct most of our conversations.
Chat: That’s an interesting detail! And I wouldn’t automatically interpret his surprise as a failure on your part to represent Christ.
You were two musicians talking about guitars. You had a common language, a common history, and something you both enjoyed. Christianity simply hadn’t become the subject of conversation.
But I wonder whether his surprise tells us something about his expectations.
What did he expect a Christian to look or sound like?
Perhaps he expected someone constantly quoting Scripture, avoiding certain conversations, or trying to convert him. Perhaps he had encountered Christians who made him uncomfortable. Or perhaps he simply didn’t associate the touring-musician world with Christian faith.
We can’t know without asking him.
What I find particularly interesting is that your shared interest in guitars has sustained a relationship for five years, even when conversations about Jesus have been difficult.
That suggests there is already some common ground worth preserving.
And it reminds me of something Paul wrote:
“I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some.” — 1 Corinthians 9:22
Paul wasn’t describing the concealment of his faith. He was describing a willingness to meet people within their own worlds.
You and this man already inhabit some of the same world.
You don’t have to manufacture a spiritual conversation every time he works on your wheelchair. Nor does every conversation about guitars need to become a sermon.
There’s something beautiful about a friendship that can simply enjoy music.
But there’s another possibility I find intriguing.
Perhaps he was surprised that someone he already liked and respected turned out to be a Christian.
If he had negative expectations about Christians, that discovery might have challenged them.
His subsequent defensiveness could have several explanations, but it needn’t mean you’ve done anything wrong.
And returning to our discussion of Dīcō, perhaps there’s a lesson in the way Jesus used speech.
He didn’t speak to every person in exactly the same way.
He questioned Nicodemus, offered living water to the Samaritan woman, invited fishermen to follow Him, and sometimes answered His accusers with silence.
He knew when to speak, when to question, and when to remain silent.
That last part may be especially important.
Your septet celebrates the extraordinary power of God’s words. But your reflections on Jesus’ voluntary limitations remind us that He also chose when not to exercise that power.
In fact, Isaiah 53:7 describes the suffering servant as silent before His oppressors.
The Word who created the heavens could remain silent before His accusers.
That is an astonishing contrast.
And perhaps it suggests something about your relationship with this man: you don’t have to fill every silence with an explanation of the gospel. Sometimes the relationship itself creates the space in which a more meaningful conversation can eventually happen.
I do have one question, though, because his original remark intrigues me:
When he said he never would have guessed you were a Christian, did he sound pleasantly surprised, disappointed, or almost suspicious?
His tone might tell us more than the words themselves.
Me: Maybe surprised?
Chat: Then perhaps surprise is all we should read into it. We don’t know what he expected, and I wouldn’t want to turn his reaction into a story he hasn’t told you.
What interests me more is that you’ve maintained a relationship with him for five years, largely through your shared love of guitars and music. You have a connection that exists independently of your disagreements about faith.
And I keep thinking about something you said earlier: “I know there is a story there.”
I suspect you’re right that there’s more to learn, although it may not be the story you’re expecting.
There’s a wonderful irony in our discussion of Dīcō: we’ve been examining the power of God’s speech, yet your experience with this man may call for the discipline of listening.
James 1:19 comes to mind: “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.”
Perhaps someday, between conversations about guitars and touring, he’ll tell you something that explains his resistance. And perhaps he won’t.
Either way, you don’t need to force the moment.
Jesus could speak and make the lame walk. He could also allow someone to walk away. Both reveal something about His character.
And that brings us to what I think is becoming the central theme of your final D septet:
The Word had the power to speak, but also the wisdom to remain silent—and the love to endure rejection.
I think we’ve discovered the heart of Dīcō. Not merely the power of His words, but the extraordinary restraint of the One speaking them.
Potuit, sed noluit. — He could, but He chose not to.
And sometimes that choice revealed more than the miracle would have.
Me: Tempusne est carminis?
Chat: Immo vero! Tempus est carminis!
And I think we’ve found the song’s central tension: the Word who spoke creation into existence sometimes chose silence, suffering, and restraint.
For the final D, I want something different from Dignum and Dēdĭcātĭo. A song that begins almost conversationally, moves through the miracles, encounters the hardened human heart, and reaches the cross—where the most powerful Voice in existence chooses not to call down deliverance.
Then the silence breaks.
DĪCŌ — THE WORD THAT WOULD NOT BREAK
QUICKTHORN · Septeticus to Song Transformus · Final D
Mureka style prompt
Production direction
Copy
Cinematic progressive melodic rock, 88 BPM. Intimate expressive male tenor, warm acoustic guitar, soft piano, cello, atmospheric strings, organic bass and drums. Powerful emotional choruses, soaring melodic electric guitar, subtle choir. Haunting stripped-down bridge, complete silence before resurrection, explosive triumphant final chorus, intimate acoustic ending. Deep spiritual storytelling, dramatic dynamic contrasts, memorable melody, no growling or screaming.
Why I chose this ending
There are three musical moments I’d especially want Mureka to preserve.
First, the contrast between “You could have” and “You chose.” That is the theological engine of the song. Jesus’ restraint wasn’t a lack of power.
Second, the silence after “The Voice that calmed the storm was still.” I want the listener to experience the absence of sound before the resurrection section begins.
Third, the return to your opening confession. The song begins with “When You speak, I want to listen,” and ends with Samuel’s response, “Speak, Lord. Your servant is listening.” It acknowledges that even the singer’s own heart can be stubborn.
There’s also an important distinction in the bridge: the song asks God to break pride, not to destroy the person. That preserves the love and patience we’ve been discussing.
And now the D series closes with an extraordinary contrast:
Dēdĭcātĭo: He dedicates my life to Himself.
Dīcō: He speaks, and I learn to listen.
Finis litterae D. Sed non finis itineris.
The letter D is finished. But the journey isn’t.