Episode 3 quietly pivots to a terrifying new question: “What happens when love stops being theoretical?” The answer this episode seems almost afraid to approach is that love becomes incarnate. It sounds dramatic, but incarnation (the act of making the abstract fully embodied) is the hidden architecture of this episode.
I. Opening with Lust: Why this matters more than sexuality.
The episode opens with a thematic nod to the Seven Deadly Sins, specifically highlighting Lust. That’s already fascinating because lust in Christian theology is so often misunderstood. It isn't merely "feeling attraction." Rather, lust is traditionally framed as disordered desire: a craving completely detached from relationship, dignity, or emotional integration. But notice the brilliance of the writing here: Tanrak’s suffering in this episode isn't a simple case of, "I want Barth physically." Instead, his agony stems from a much deeper question: “Why does wanting someone suddenly feel incompatible with who I thought I was?” With that single conflict, the episode immediately elevates and complicates the category.
II. “It's been ten minutes since my last confession.”
Barth’s joke sounds harmless, but symbolically, it’s brutal. Confession exists to name the very things that separate a soul from God. On the surface, Barth is basically teasing: “You're so good at being holy, you confess professionally.” But underneath that wit lies a dual tragedy. First, Barth assumes Tanrak still belongs to that sacred world. Second, he assumes his own exile: “God wouldn't listen to me anyway.” That line destroys me. It proves Barth still views God relationally, it's just that his God doesn't answer. When he says he forgot the last time he confessed, the subtext is devastating. Confession requires believing someone is listening. Barth stopped expecting that a long time ago.
The staging in this sequence is incredible. Tanrak is waiting outside the confessional, paralyzed by a sudden fear that he no longer qualifies as “God’s favorite son.” Watch how they move toward each other: Tanrak pauses at the holy water font, waits in the queue, but ultimately never crosses the threshold. It makes Barth’s teasing even sweeter in hindsight. Barth isn’t mocking the sacrament of confession itself; he’s trying to ease Tanrak’s tension. It’s the: “Come on, what could you possibly have to confess?” Meanwhile, the audience knows the truth. Tanrak thinks he is carrying an unforgivable, crushing weight.
III. The Father’s sermon on “God is Love” is doing an insane amount of psychological work.
The thematic structure is clear:
Human hearts naturally seek love.
People get lost along the way.
Some forms of love mislead.
God waits for your return.
While this is meant to sound comforting, to Tanrak, it’s a psychological trap. He hears: If love can lead away from God, what if my love is a sin? The accompanying montage makes this explicitly clear, cutting from the church rituals and communion straight to Barth’s lingering gaze. That editing is anything but subtle. The sermon is talking about God, but Tanrak’s entire universe is centered on Barth.
This is where the Episode 2 Corinthians reading gets so much richer.
Episode 2: Love challenges doctrine.
Episode 3: Doctrine begins speaking the language of love.
That’s dangerous, because now Tanrak can't separate them. The Father's advice is so shockingly gentle it stunned me. When Tanrak asks, "If feelings make you feel bad, are they wrong?" the Father gives a radical response: "Sometimes they aren't bad. You're just afraid." In doing so, he draws a sharp boundary line: feeling is not synonymous with sin, and fear is not moral truth. This completely upends Tanrak's internal theology. Where Tanrak assumes feeling is danger, the Father suggests feeling is simply information.
And then: “God isn't in a rush.” That single line might secretly be the theological axis of Episode 3. Tanrak lives entirely through a framework of urgency. Perfect grades. Perfect devotion. Perfect obedience. Perfect certainty. But God (at least within the walls of this conversation) doesn't rush. People do. Institutions do. Fear does. God doesn't.
IV. Tanrak kneeling before the Holy Family gives us a perfect, devastating reversal of Episode 1.
Think about the parallel: in the first episode, Barth stares at the icon with the question, “Why wasn't I chosen?” In Episode 3, Tanrak faces the exact same image, asking, “Can I still belong?” It’s the same holy imagery, but a completely different wound. Barth feared exclusion. Tanrak fears disqualification. The idea of the Holy Family remains entirely impossible. But now, it is an impossibility they share.
V. I am so fascinated by this section and the way it handles why Tanrak becomes so much brighter afterward.
Right after the Father notes that feelings aren't a sin, Tanrak just... relaxes. He smiles, flirts, and actively returns to life. That matters so much. Before this, love meant catastrophe. Now, love means possibility. Just look at the physical transformation: his body starts behaving before his theology catches up. That's a crucial distinction. Tanrak doesn't intellectually decide to change, his body already knows the truth.
VI. The choice to have Tanrak watching the football scene instead of supervising it is absolutely huge.
It beautifully follows what I pointed out in Episode 2: recognition precedes desire. Episode 3 officially turns that idea into visual language. He doesn't care about the game; he only has eyes for Barth. Love, quite literally, starts shifting his entire focus.
VII. Episode 3 isn't just a repeat of the Episode 2 bread scene; it reframes and escalates it.
And then comes the line: “This is my body given to you.” That hits like a truck. In theology, the Eucharist isn't just food; it’s an offering of the self. The core movement is simple: I give myself, therefore relationship becomes possible. That’s why communion was never meant to be solitary. When you look at Barth’s vulnerability in that moment, the way he admits, “You’re my only friend,” and begs, “If I upset you, tell me,” that line about his body changes entirely. It stops being irreverent and starts feeling like an ultimatum of the heart: “Take me seriously. Know me. Don't leave.” For a character who has been so guarded, it’s a devastatingly perfect arc.
VIII. I love the way Barth temporarily slips into "priest-language."
When he jokes, “Maybe one day I’ll get to say that in Mass,” the narrative irony is layered. On the surface, it’s a casual quip. In reality, it’s a fantasy of an impossible belonging.
Think about it: the priest is the mediator of communion. The priest stands at the very center of belonging, and Barth is jokingly inserting himself into that role. It’s a painful masquerade, especially because he admits moments later, “A guy like me won’t go to heaven anyway.” The contradiction is heartbreaking: “I’m never getting into heaven, but let me practice the liturgy anyway.” It sounds like someone standing outside a window, imagining a warmth they know they’ll never feel. It brings us right back to the core of his character arc: Barth never looked indifferent to faith. He looked exiled from it.
IX. The structural inversion from Episode 2 is brilliant, and it might be my favorite layer of the entire episode.
Episode 2: Barth offers the bread; Tanrak receives.
Episode 3: Barth offers; Tanrak breaks and shares.
That shift matters because communion is meant to be shared. Look at Tanrak’s exact movement here. Instead of taking the donut whole, he divides it. Breaking bread is one of the oldest Christian ritual images we have. It’s not about consuming; it’s about sharing. With that single choice, Tanrak actively participates, turning a one-sided offering into a mutual invitation.
To top it all off, the fact that he still accepts the piece of bread right after telling Barth, “God will punish you,” is the absolute kicker. His theology says caution. His body says yes.
There is a second, even more fascinating possibility here: the scene is a quiet confrontation between sacramental love and deep-seated shame.
Trace the structural timeline of the episode.
First, the Father states that God is love while Tanrak wrestles with the fear of his own desires.
Then, the bread enters the frame.
Barth speaks the language of the Eucharist, Tanrak receives it, and their eyes meet.
If this sequence is deliberate, the subtext is wild: if communion is the act of receiving another with love, what happens when the one offering himself believes he is already exiled from grace? It’s a dangerous piece of symbolism because it shifts the narrative axis. Barth’s body stops representing temptation and corruption, and instead becomes an instrument of relationship and gift. It beautifully mirrors the episode's overarching thesis: turning the human body into a place of encounter instead of a place of shame.
X. I can't stop thinking about the framing of Tanrak looking up at Barth.
The camera constantly places Tanrak in the lower position, which feels like a deliberate choice. It’s easy to label it as just attraction, but it goes deeper than that. In every emotionally charged scene, Tanrak is positioned below him. It’s a brilliant inversion of their social reality, where Tanrak holds all the cards. Emotionally, Barth takes the lead as a sort of prophetic guide. Tanrak looks up to him because Barth is the only one brave enough to name the truths that Tanrak keeps hidden.
XI. Tanrak’s first real rival isn't a girl, and that is what makes this Christmas segment so utterly devastating.
Because everyone in their world assumes a "Barth plus a girl" narrative, Tanrak panics. However, I don't think his panic stems from romantic jealousy; rather, he is jealous of legibility. Mary and Joseph make sense to people. They fit the script. They get the applause, and they fundamentally belong. Meanwhile, Tanrak is hit with the sudden, crushing realization that his own feelings don't fit the stage. The real tragedy here isn’t that Barth might like a girl; it's that the world already knows exactly where that story goes. This beautifully mirrors the "Holy Family" wound introduced in Episode 1. Once again, it comes back to family. Once again, it's about the pain of being outside of it.
XII. My favorite visual in the series has to be the communal bath, which acts as a profound inversion of the pool imagery.
Look at the progression: Episode 1 gives us an empty pool and a failed baptism. Episode 3 fills the baths to the brim. It’s full immersion. Bodies, exposure, and absolutely no escape. The breakthrough that failed to happen spiritually is now happening emotionally; they are entirely submerged. Then, the crowd thins out until only Tanrak remains. That isn't accidental. The communal ritual ends, and the private revelation begins.
XIII. “Scoopy-Doopy-Doo” (yes, seriously).
This scene is deceptively vital to their dynamic. Watch how Barth masterfully translates care into play, masking his intimacy as a joke by checking off the essentials: medicine? temperature? warmth? He doesn't offer a confession first; he establishes safety.
Once that safety is there, the physical contact follows. Forehead, neck, tickling, water on skin. The camera deliberately lingers on these points of contact. That stylistic choice matters immensely because, historically in this series, touch has always carried the weight of discipline, control, and institutional policing. In this room, however, touch is entirely stripped of that baggage. It becomes a vehicle for genuine attention.
XIV. The staging of the "confession booth" is absolutely insane.
Notice how they utilize the wire mesh window? I think this framing is entirely deliberate. Suddenly, we have Barth on the outside and Tanrak on the inside, visually mimicking a priest and a penitent. But the brilliance lies in the ambiguity: who is actually who? At first glance, Tanrak looks like the confessor and Barth the sinner.
But then, Barth starts asking the real questions, naming the hidden truths, and inviting raw honesty. In an instant, the roles reverse, and Barth becomes the confessor: a lost sheep who has somehow stepped into the role of the Shepherd. Look at the dialogue. When Barth says, “You’re running from yourself,” that isn't an attempt at seduction; it’s a spiritual diagnosis. And when he follows up with, “You felt what I felt, too,” the choice of words is everything. He isn't pleading, “Love me.” He is demanding, “Tell the truth.”
XV. “I'm not God's favorite son.”
That line destroys me. It’s not a declaration of being bad, sinful, or hated by God. It’s the language of a favorite son, an aching vocabulary of family, inheritance, and belonging. Barth’s core wound isn’t that he thinks he's evil; it's that he thinks he is less loved. It beautifully reframes why he stopped confessing all those years ago: why speak into the silence if you aren't the favored child? He only returns to the "booth" now because he knows Tanrak is on the other side, listening. That realization hurts on an entirely different level.
XVI. “I'm not God's favorite son either.”
This is one of the most stunning romantic confessions I've witnessed in a while. Tanrak isn't just giving a simple, “I like you too.” He’s revealing his own fractured identity: “I thought I belonged, but I don't.” It makes the moment feel less about physical desire and entirely about soul-deep solidarity. It’s not passion first, it's mutual recognition first.
XVII. I love the choice to have the camera pull away after the kiss.
It’s beautiful because the camera’s retreat isn't about voyeurism; it’s about establishing enclosure. Suddenly, we become the outsiders, looking in on a world where they finally belong to each other in a way we can't touch.
Being framed between those two water containers adds such heavy symbolism. It instantly mirrors a confession booth, a baptismal space, a womb, a secret sanctuary. They’re hidden, but not dirty. It’s private, but it’s completely safe from condemnation.
XVIII. This brings me to my biggest takeaway from the series so far:
Episode 1: “Will anyone come for me?”
Episode 2: “What does love ask of us?”
Episode 3: “What if the thing that saves me is also the thing I'm afraid will condemn me?”
And Episode 3’s answer to that final question feels surprisingly gentle. It isn't that desire saves, or that religion saves; rather, it's that truth is the first step toward making either possible. What I wrote during Episode 1 remains true: Tanrak knows how to belong, while Barth knows how to be himself. Episode 3 is simply the first time they exchange those inherent gifts. Barth offers Tanrak honesty. Tanrak gives Barth the terrifying possibility that maybe, he isn't as excluded as he thought.
XIX. This kiss isn’t about temptation. It’s a mutual confession.
It feels overwhelming instead of fluttery because we aren't witnessing a sweet first attraction; we are witnessing a collapse. Tanrak doesn't kiss because he finally has answers. He kisses the moment he admits, “I don't understand myself.” It is an act of total surrender. What fascinates me is that the episode never treats love as the transgression. Fear is the actual prison here (an idea beautifully mirrored by the staging of Tanrak trapping himself in a room with a wire window). Though the title screams Lust, the narrative text consistently delivers care, longing, jealousy, comfort, confession, tenderness, reciprocity, and recognition. It forces us to confront a devastating alternative: Tanrak’s crisis isn't a matter of sinful desire. It’s that he is discovering intimacy for the very first time, and he has absolutely no language to differentiate between being loved and being utterly lost.
