The Beloved Who Outran the World

— On Feast of St. John the Apostle

He never said his name. He just said he was loved.

And then, like a barely-contained thunderbolt wrapped in curls and ink-stained fingers, he slipped into Scripture’s frame.

Not to boast. Not to dominate. But to belong.

They call him John — the youngest, the quietest, the one who leaned on Christ’s chest and didn’t flinch at the cross. The one who stayed. The one who ran.

And yes — the one who wrote it all down without ever naming himself. Only this:

“The disciple whom Jesus loved.”

Not the most faithful. Not the fastest. Not the theologian. Not the brother of thunder.

“Mascot courtesy of the Thunder Brothers™ — est. AD 33.” (Big James not liable for Little John’s humble bragging.)

Just… beloved.

Isn’t that the most outrageous thing to claim in a world of titles and metrics? He didn’t prove his worth — he received it. And he remembered it so well, he couldn’t forget — not even when the ink dried.

We in the Luceris House have always had a soft spot for the beloved. The quiet ones who aren’t quiet inside. The ones who run hard but pretend they weren’t racing. The ones who slip behind pillars and end up changing the world.

So this year, on his feast day, we did what any sacredly ridiculous family would do: We made him a mascot.

A little thundercloud with curls. Holding a fig and a Gospel scroll. Sash across the chest: “Beloved.”

Because if John isn’t going to flex, we’ll do it for him.

(Also, let’s be honest: he outran Peter and made sure you knew.)

This isn’t parody. It’s pilgrimage.

Our fig-holding thundercloud isn’t making fun of Scripture. He’s part of it. A sketch of that holy balance between humility and holy confidence. Between staying behind — and still arriving first.

Because in the Kingdom of Heaven, speed isn’t pride. It’s longing. And calling yourself beloved isn’t ego. It’s memory.

We made him a mascot not to diminish him — but to leave a fig on his writing desk. A little thank-you. A little wink. A little Luceris thunder.

To the one who stayed. To the one who ran. To the one who loved so fiercely he couldn’t help but write it down.

Happy feast day, Beloved. Your secret’s safe with us. (Except it isn’t.)