You came in street clothes and stood right beside me, every day. You worked in the rhythms of a human body: fasting, feasting, resting, mourning, and simply living through all of the ordinary days, and you were always giving thanks. You were always waiting and listening, trusting and obeying with a perfect lack of fear. You knew, you've always known, that your Father is good, and His business works best in His timing.
When power came on you like a dove, you didn't falter in your humility, you embraced your authority with the attitude of a servant, serving many, serving the greatest and the least of these, serving the ones who walked beside you even when they still couldn't see that you were the spitting image of your good good Father. That Friday, when you refused to denounce your birthright and chose to accept your title as king, though it meant beating, slander, and the worst agony, that Friday, while your kind and simple face got obscured by your blood, your good Father's heart was displayed perfectly. Standing before me now, still in plain clothes, looking like a gardener, traveler, or friend, your strange and humble beauty astounds me again, because I can touch you who conquered death, hear you say my name audibly, trace your scars with my fingertips, share a meal you prepared for me, my resurrected King, what kind of kingdom is your good Father building? "Come and see." A heart not calloused but blistered:
Nerves oversensitive cause me to flinch At even the gentlest touch; I'm afraid, Afraid I will get burned again by proximity To something warm and friendly, Because what if the wick is short again, Supporting a fire burning hotly But only for a moment, Leaving me scorched and my eyes blinking, Seeing only the reverse images of what was. "You can't look at the sun directly." That's what they tell me. "You can't look at the sun directly, Or you'll go blind." But you ask me to look you full in the face Every moment of every day. You tell me flames are part of this journey, Blue-hot flames that consume things instantly, Yet you say I will not be consumed If I keep looking at you, straight at you, As everything else turns to ash. There's not another invitation like this Anywhere else in the universe; You alone have eyes of pure fire. Can you forgive my hesitancy? I know it wasn't you that burned me, But I never thought anyone would, So trusting another beating heart is scary, I'm scared there will be nothing left of me If I submit to looking at you and letting you Look right back at me, piercing me through With those eyes, those eyes, those eyes -- Fully fearsome and fully kind, You see my fear and hold me there, Your gaze surrounds me, Your intensity somehow brings a cooling peace, Soothing my insecurity with your surety: You are warmth in true form, lasting fire, Wild and perfectly self-controlled. I asked Jesus to be made in His likeness, so He showed me the idols I'd built up around my heart and He offered to help me tear them down.
It was fun at first, the freedom, seeing light break through the wall, feeling the breeze blow through the open spaces; it was fun at first, until I realized that once these long-familiar things were gone, nothing stood between me and my Maker. Somewhere a lie slipped in and spread that told me pain was punishment and suffering was shameful, that I'm only hurting because I did something wrong, if I were better, if I were just better, then all would be well. But God Himself was a son of suffering, well-acquainted with pain. Immanuel came down to dwell among us, came down and without sinning, knew perfect compassion for every bruising ache in our bodies, minds, hearts, and spirits; compassion without disdain. Yeshua, King of kings, not ruddy or handsome like David, but strong, consistent, humble, hardworking. Yeshua born through Mary out of wedlock and yet in perfect holiness. Yeshua of Nazareth of all places. Yeshua whom the people loved until they hated, whom the people used to heal their diseases and yet took up offenses at His teachings and took up stones to stone Him. Yeshua whose best friends betrayed, abandoned, and denied Him when it counted most; they couldn't even stay up a while to pray, they all fell asleep. This is my Maker, the one who formed me. He did not avoid pain or despise suffering, instead He endured it, faithfully, just as the Father was doing. Love is long-suffering. Love surrenders everything for the sake of His beloved, for me, and for all of my neighbors and enemies. Love offers me forgiveness to replace my obstinance, inheritance to replace my insecurity, love offers me His resurrection if I'll also receive His suffering. The cup of redemption is heavy, pure gold and full of blood. "My yoke is easy," He encourages me, "My burden is light." My heart twists in this seeming dichotomy: Taking up a cross daily is costly and in the same moment I am promised that I who am thirsty can have an everlasting drink, and I with no money can come buy and eat at the table set for a feast. "Joy comes in the morning." Yes, Lord, but when will the morning come? How long until these tears are gone? How long? Love is long-suffering. Love is full of comfort and joy. How long before my heart accepts that anything that makes me aware of my need for you, my salvation, is a good gift and not a slap on the wrist? To know you, friend, in intimacy is precious and rare and always available to the one who won't be offended by your blood and body. Lord, forgive me. I've been offended by your pain and by your suffering. I let you take it all and offered no praise of thanksgiving for your wild, unmerited, extravagant generosity. All you ask is for my offering of praise; you don't need my blood, yours is exceedingly, abundantly more than enough. You even accept my broken heart as an offering if I will just give it over into your careful, tender, loving hands in faith that you are the God who heals me, you are the God who saves, you are the Holy Spirit inside me, waiting to transform my shame into true and honest glory. You are all that you say you are. You are the great I Am. I believe, Lord, help my unbelief. Here I am, Lord, your servant is listening, teach me how to know you in pain and in grief. Joyful friend, I come to you low and I come to you boldly: please heal me and hold me. You are worthy of my trust. You are worthy. You are worthy. You are good. |
AuthorI write to process. I write to explore. I write with the hope of sharing truth greater than my own. Archives
February 2022
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