Jesus Christ unboxes an iphone

 The “package” arrives as a thing that should not exist.

Not just “unusual.”  Not “foreign.”  Not even “Roman-made but unfamiliar.”

It is impossible object energy: a clean, sharp-edged, perfectly fitted box, layered within a tougher outer shell, all of it unmarred by travel.  No wax seal.  No cord.  No knot.  No ink.  No maker’s mark he recognizes.  It looks manufactured in a way that doesn’t resemble woodwork, pottery, leatherwork, metalwork, or glasswork.  It resembles… nothing.

And it’s addressed to him.

Not in the Latin of administrators, but in the ordinary tongue of his people (close enough to his Aramaic to be legible in this thought experiment).  Not a proclamation.  Not a threat.  Just his name—simple, confident, as if the sender expects the world to make room.

He doesn’t tear it open.  He doesn’t treat it like loot.  He treats it like a question.

He turns it in his hands, feeling the stiffness of the outer box.  The uniformity.  The way it doesn’t fray, doesn’t splinter, doesn’t smell like pitch or tallow.  There’s no obvious place to start.  That alone is unsettling: most things in his world invite opening—lids, ties, seams.  This thing resists being categorized as a “container” at all.

The others are already reacting.

A disciple, half-grinning: “A gift?”

Another, suspicious: “From whom?”

Someone mutters the word “sign” the way people mutter “storm.”

He looks at them, then at the box again, and you can feel the internal rule he lives by: if it is a trap, it will reveal itself by what it asks you to become.  So he doesn’t become frantic.  He doesn’t become greedy.  He becomes careful.

He finds the edge where the lid separates, not because he’s seen packaging like this, but because he’s handled enough objects to understand that human-made things have joints.  He presses, shifts, tests with his thumb.  The lid gives with a soft, exact surrender.

Inside: another box.  Smaller.  Smoother.  Almost ceremonial in its neatness.

This second box is so refined it feels like an expensive ointment jar without the jar—luxury without obvious materials.  The surface is pale, matte, almost stone-like but too perfect.  Letters, crisp and dark, spelling a word he cannot read: “iPhone.”  The word means nothing.  It isn’t Greek.  It isn’t Latin.  It isn’t Hebrew.  It is simply… a label.

And on top of everything, a folded note.

He opens the note first.  Because messages matter more than marvels.

The note, in his language:

“Here is your new iPhone. Since there is no network where you live I have done a basic setup for you. Feel free to use as you like. From a distant admirer.”

He reads it once.  Then again, more slowly.

“Network” is the strange part.  The word (whatever the translator equivalent is) lands in his mind as “net”—as in fishing net—then as “a web of connection,” then stalls.  He doesn’t import modern meanings.  He just notes: the sender believes the object normally connects to something else, but here it won’t.  So the object has been prepared to function alone.

“A distant admirer” is also strange.  Admiration is familiar.  Distance is familiar.  But the confidence—the intimacy—without introduction… is the tone of someone who thinks they have watched him.

He sets the note down.

There’s a quiet moment where everyone is waiting to see whether he treats this as holy, cursed, or trivial.

He chooses a fourth option: ordinary caution with extraordinary things.

He opens the inner box.

The phone is black glass and metal—though “glass” doesn’t fully fit, because it’s colder, harder, more uniform, without the slight waviness of hand-worked surfaces.  It reflects faces with a merciless clarity.  No ornamentation.  No obvious mechanism.  No hinge.  No scrollwork.  It is austerely, almost aggressively, simple.

Someone says, very softly, “It’s like a mirror.”

And that’s the first safe analogy.  A mirror that is too perfect.

He lifts it.  It’s heavier than it looks, but not like stone.  Not like a brick of iron.  More… dense.  As if the weight has been engineered.

He turns it over.  There are tiny markings.  A symbol of fruit.  Writing so small it’s like a challenge to the eye.  A smooth circle on one side—no, not a circle, a lens-like inset.  He doesn’t know “camera.”  He just knows it looks like a single, unblinking eye made of polished dark stone.

One disciple makes a joke he doesn’t quite believe: “Your admirer sent you a little idol.”

No one laughs much.

He finds the single button by accident, because it’s the only thing that behaves like a “switch.”  He presses.  Nothing.  Presses again, longer.

The screen wakes.

Not like a flame.  Not like phosphor.  Not like anything he has seen.  It’s light with no smoke, no wick, no oil, no smell.  A perfect, even illumination from within the flat surface.

A few people recoil.  Not because they know what it is, but because it violates the ancient expectations: light comes from burning or sun or reflection.  This is neither.

On the screen, the simplest thing appears: “Hello.”  (In the language it’s been set to.)

A greeting.  Not a command.

He watches it change: different scripts, different tongues, as if the object is greeting the world one people at a time.  That—oddly—makes it feel less like sorcery and more like… hospitality.

He looks up at the others.  Calm voice.  “It speaks.”

“It glows,” someone says, like the glow is the crime.

He uses his thumb on the surface and discovers it responds to touch.  Again: no imported modern assumptions, but it isn’t hard to learn “touching this makes it change.”  Humans are excellent at poking mysterious surfaces until they confess.

He swipes.  The setup is already done, per your premise, so it reaches a simple home screen.  Icons.  Little pictures.  A grid of symbols.

This is where the box stops being “mirror” and becomes “tablet” in the older sense: a writing tablet, a signboard, a scholar’s tool—except it holds many tools at once.

He taps an icon that looks like a book.

Notes app opens (or equivalent).  A blank page.

That lands.  Blank pages are valuable.

He begins with the natural experiment: does it record marks?  He taps.  A line appears where his finger goes.  He tries again, slower.  He realizes he can make symbols—letters—appear.

He writes something small: a word he knows, a fragment of a psalm perhaps.  The device holds it without ink, without scratching, without erasing the surface.  That is power, yes—but it is the kind of power scribes would weep over, not the kind soldiers would wield.

Someone leans in.  “How did you do that?”

He doesn’t say “it’s a computer.”  He doesn’t say “software.”  He says the only honest thing: “It obeys the hand.”

He explores carefully.  Not greedily.  Not as a child with a toy, but as a teacher testing what a thing is for.

He opens “Photos” by accident (or by curiosity).  There are a few preloaded images: maybe generic wallpapers, landscapes, patterns.

This is the moment some people decide it’s magic, because the images look like windows into other places—too detailed, too accurate.  But he doesn’t have “photography” as a concept to map onto.  He has paintings, mosaics, perhaps the idea of likenesses on coins.  So he classifies it as: a device that contains images with extreme fidelity.

He pinches the screen and the image changes size.  He realizes he can inspect details.  It is like holding a miniature mural and moving closer without moving.

He doesn’t smile much.  He’s not trying to be impressed.  He’s trying to see whether this object helps people love God and neighbor—or whether it helps them love spectacle.

The note said: “Feel free to use as you like.”

That line bothers him.  Not because freedom is bad, but because freedom without context is a test.  The sender has placed a powerful tool into his hands without accountability, like giving a sword to a child and calling it “a gift.”

He closes the images.  He returns to the home screen.

He finds “Clock.”  A sunless, relentless measure of time.  Hours and minutes ticking.  He knows sundials, water clocks, the rhythm of prayers and markets and meals.  This is time made portable and precise, time separated from sky and shadow.

He watches it for a moment.  Then turns it off.  Not forever—just a pause.

He looks around at the circle of faces.

No speeches.  Just one of those short, surgical statements that makes people uncomfortable because it’s too sane:

“This is a tool.”

Someone objects: “A tool from where?”

He doesn’t pretend to know.  He doesn’t say “the future.”  He doesn’t say “Rome.”  He doesn’t say “angels.”  He says what he can defend:

“From someone who wants to be hidden.”

That’s true.  “Distant admirer” is hiding.

Then he adds, gently, like he’s calming a frightened animal:

“A good thing can be used badly.  A strange thing can be used well.”

Peter (or whoever you imagine at his shoulder) is still staring at the screen like it might bite.  “Should we… keep it?”

He looks down at the closed, dark glass.  He feels the weight again.  The density of it.  The quiet promise.

He doesn’t theatrically smash it.  That would be an answer driven by fear.  And he doesn’t enthrone it.  That would be an answer driven by awe.

He does the most Jesus-like thing possible in this scenario:

He refuses to let the object become the center of the room.

He puts it away—wrapped in cloth, like something fragile and valuable, but also like something that shouldn’t be looked at all the time.  He decides it will be examined in private, slowly, with discernment.

Because the real danger isn’t that it glows.

The real danger is that everyone will start living toward it—gathering for the spectacle, arguing over its meaning, building a new sect around a box.

And he’s seen humans do that with far smaller shiny things.

So the Amazon box—the outer box—is kept too.  Not as a relic, but as evidence: this arrived by means unknown.  It isn’t to be used to bully people.  If anyone asks, he can show the note, the plain words, the lack of threats.

That night, when he’s alone, he turns it on again.  He opens Notes.

He writes, not a prophecy about the device, but a question about himself:

“What is this for?”

Then he stops—because the device doesn’t answer questions.  It only amplifies the hands and intentions of the one holding it.

And that’s the moral weight of the whole scene: the iPhone doesn’t import modern knowledge into him.

It imports modern temptation into the room.

A tool that can store words and images without limit, that can present beauty without effort, that can measure time without sky—arriving in a world where people already struggle to tell the difference between God and glitter.

The box is not the miracle.

The miracle is whether he can keep it from becoming an idol.

As written by a disciple

And it came to pass in those days, as we were with him by the road, that a parcel was brought unto us, a thing strange to behold, such as no man among us had seen.

For it was a box of stiff substance, not of wood, neither of reed, neither bound with cord, and it had no seal of wax.  And upon it were marks and letters set down with a cleanness most exact, as though a scribe had written with a hand that never trembled.  And it was addressed unto him.

Now when we saw it, some were afraid, and some marvelled, saying, “What manner of gift is this?”  And others murmured, “Who hath sent it?  For no man sendeth thus, and by no messenger do we know.”

And Jesus took the box into his hands, and he regarded it, turning it about, and he was not hasty.  And he did not bid us cast it away, neither did he command that we bow ourselves unto it; but he looked upon it as a shepherd looketh upon a gate left open in the night.

And there was within the box another thing, smaller and fairer, and beside it a writing folded.

And he opened the writing, and read it in our tongue, and it said,

“Here is your new iPhone.  Since there is no network where you live I have done a basic setup for you.  Feel free to use as you like.  From a distant admirer.”

And when he had read it, he was silent a little while.  And I, being near him, saw his brow, how it was not troubled as of fear, but as of discernment, as when he heareth the thoughts of men.

And Peter said, “A distant admirer?  Who is this that nameth thee so, and hideth himself?”

But Jesus answered not at once.  And he set the writing aside, and opened the inner box.

And there was a slab like unto a mirror, yet not such as we had known, for it was dark and smooth, without blemish, and it was framed with a hard substance that was neither brass nor iron, yet had the coldness of metal.  And on the back was a little circle as of an eye, black and without light.

And Andrew said, “Is it an idol?”  And I rebuked him not, for my own heart questioned likewise.

And Jesus held it, and weighed it in his palm, and sought for the manner of its opening and the secret of its working; and he found upon it a small place like unto a stud, and he pressed it.

At first there was nothing.

And he pressed again, and held it.

And suddenly the face of it shone with light, not of flame nor of oil, and there was no smoke, neither did it crackle, nor did it warm his hand; but it shone as though day were shut up within it.

And some drew back, and one said, “Surely this is a sign.”

But Jesus said softly, “Be not hasty.”

And upon the light were words that greeted us, and the greeting changed, as though many tongues passed over it like the waters of a river.  And though it was set in our speech, yet we perceived that it was made for all nations, greeting each in his own manner.

And Jesus moved his thumb upon it, and the light answered him, and changed.  And he moved again, and it obeyed him, as a tame thing obeyeth the hand of its master.

And we marvelled, for it was as though he wrote upon glass and the glass received it.

And he came to a place upon it like a blank tablet, and there he made letters appear without ink.  And he wrote a word that I knew, and it stood as though newly penned, and yet no mark was upon the surface.

Then James said, “It obeyeth thee.”

And Jesus answered, “It obeyeth the hand.”

And he touched again, and the thing showed unto us images—hills and waters and sky—so clear that it was as though a window had been cut into the world, and another world put behind it.  And I confess, my heart trembled, for I had never seen a likeness so perfect, neither on coin nor on wall nor in a rich man’s house.

And John whispered, “How can a man paint thus within a stone?”

But Jesus closed it, and returned to the first face, where were many little signs set in order.

And he opened a place that measured time, and it numbered the hours with great exactness, though no sun was in it, neither shadow.  And he looked upon it, and shut it again, as one who refuseth to be ruled by a thing.

And Peter said, “Master, what shall we do with it?”

And Jesus looked upon us, and his eyes were steady, and he said, “It is a tool.”

And Philip said, “From whence cometh such a tool?  For it is not of Rome, neither of Greece, neither of any craftsman we have known.”

And Jesus said, “It is from one who would be hidden.”

Then there arose among us a disputing, not loud, but restless, as men dispute when they behold a wonder and desire a meaning more than they desire truth.  For some said, “This is for the kingdom,” and others said, “This is a snare,” and others said, “We shall show it to the crowds, and they will believe.”

But Jesus rebuked that thought, not with anger, but with sorrow, saying, “A sign doth not make the heart clean.  And a marvel doth not teach a man to love.”

And he took up the writing again, and read the last words, “Feel free to use as you like,” and he said, “Many men say this when they lay a burden upon thee.”

And I remembered how the tempter in the wilderness offered him the kingdoms of the world, and asked only that he bow.  And I feared lest this shining thing should ask the same, though it spake not.

Then Jesus wrapped it in cloth, as one keepeth a blade covered, not because it is evil, but because it is sharp; and he put it away.

And that night, when the others slept, I saw him apart, and the light of it came again, small and contained, like a lamp covered with a vessel.

And he opened the place of writing, and he made letters appear without ink, and I drew near and beheld what he wrote, for it was but a little:

“What is this for?”

And he looked upon the words a long while.

And he wrote no more.

For the thing answered him not, neither gave counsel, neither promised, nor threatened; but it waited, as a servant without a face, and its power was only this: that it made easy whatever the hand desired.

And in the morning he said unto us, “Take heed.  For a man may be led by hunger, and a man may be led by fear; but many are led by wonder.  And wonder is a good servant, but a cruel master.”

And we went on our way.  And the box remained with us, not as a god, nor as a banner, but as a question, wrapped and silent.