That Holy Night: A Christmas Reading

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests."

God, the Highest. The King of the Heavens, who decided to make His throne in some hay. The Almighty, who thought it fit to lay in a manger. The Author of Life, who decided to become man—and, somehow, by grace, to bring life to all men. Yes, us: the lowly creatures, made of dust and to dust returning. Yet we are His beloved, the objects of His favor. To us He brings peace.

I remember finding it odd, all those years ago, when Father told me those silly people had been content with the animals, with the stable, with the manger. There wasn't room for them in the inn, but they hadn't really seemed to mind.

Father told me about them shortly after they arrived—a man and his wife, he thought, and the latter would be having a baby any day. His creased face had looked troubled as he told me. Was a stable any place to have a baby? But the stable was better than nothing—and, now, I am glad that it was the stable over anything.

Father had asked me to come with him as he brought them bread and water after the rush of the crowd that busy night. I followed, carrying the water jar, but Father stopped at the entrance. Even from behind, I saw his hands trembling. He nearly dropped the bread. Something was wrong.

But a man's gentle voice had come from within: "It's okay; welcome." I remember clutching the water jar and quietly entering after my father. It didn't take long to see what had worried him; the baby had been born, and he was lying in the manger. That felt wrong, then, for any baby. It feels strange, now, knowing that that baby was a King, my King. My father tried to ease into the awkwardness. He held out the bread, his hands still trembling, but his gesture felt as out-of-place as the baby in the feeding trough.

"Thank you," the other man said. Rising from his seat on the hay-covered floor, he received the food from my father's hand, covering the scene with grace. "I'm Joseph," he said. I looked at him. He was young and clearly tired, but a broad and peaceful smile lit up his face. The mother was the same: weary, but full of joy. She met my gaze and beamed.

How quickly, though, she looked away, startled yet still smiling, to the entrance of the stable. I turned and looked too. A glorious group of shepherds filed in and filled the room. (I must describe them that way. They were shepherds, in the fullest sense of the word: worn sandals, snagged clothes, staffs, gruff, and, yeah, a...scent. But should you have seen their faces, you would have said "glorious" too.)

They gathered around, excited, nearly singing. One was louder than the others: "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests!"

They circled the manger, grinning. "It's just as the angels said!" one exclaimed. "Good news of great joy for all people! Today in the town of David a Savior has been born; He is Christ the Lord. And there He is—the sign they said we'd see! A baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger!"

They sang and praised and bowed before the child. Laughter, hugs—then out they went, as quickly as they had come. We could hear them rejoicing in the streets as they left: "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests!"

Even then, we knew that that tiny baby, wrapped up and lying in the feeding trough, was a gift, and "divine" had a different meaning than we'd ever thought before. It was deeper, for Divine had touched dust. It was sweeter, for the Creator could cry. It meant more, for our frailty became His frame. The Great One knelt. The Perfect played. The One who holds the universe flipped it all on its head, looked straight into our eyes, slobbered, and meant that, in it all, He understood.

We simply knelt after that and repeated the shepherds' praise: "Glory to God in the highest; on earth peace to men on whom His favor rests."

Never has more worth been laid on the lowly than on that night, when the Savior chose the stable.

O night, O night divine.

Thank you, Lord. Our Light has come.

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Quotations and paraphrases of Scripture are taken from Luke 2:1-18, NIV (1984). This reading was originally written for and performed (by me) during a Christmas Eve service at Faith Worship Community, Costa Mesa, CA (2016).

Ever Gently

I honestly can't remember what sort of conversation we were having when he did it. It could have been serious; it could have been a series of puns. He could have been telling an eloquent story or giving a profound reflection. Our meetings naturally contain all four. And more. That's how conversations go—like life, really.

But he was the only one I know who would have responded to the bumbling buzzing of the Japanese beetle above our heads by reaching up an eager hand to catch it. Others' hands would have tried to slap the great green thing in the air or to bat at it fearfully or to aid their fleeing bodies by clearing the way for a frenzied retreat from anywhere near the beetle's clumsy path. But his hand went straight up towards it, and he smiled in delight as it landed on his finger. He brought it down slowly, peering at it joyfully as it fumbled around, burying its head drunkenly into the hairs on his wrist. We admired its delicate beauty; its shell had stripes of a color its beholder called "iridescent green"—for iridescent and green it was! Shimmering in the dapples of sunlight that reached our little table as we conversed outside the coffee shop, this emerald bug held our enamored gazes for some time. 

And then, with a slightly mischievous grin (and, I think, an, "I wonder..."), he did it. With his free hand, he dipped a finger into his coffee and brought a single drop up and over to the beetle. The tiny black forelegs reached up and grasped at the dark droplet, and I watched in amazement as it slurped up the coffee and began to clean its face as if it was trying to get every last bit of the drink into its mouth. He gave it one more drop, which was gone even faster. We laughed, and he gave it some water. And then it settled down on his hand. He spoke to it kindly, told it it was time to go. It flattened its antennae just as a dog would flatten its ears as if to say, "No, not yet—please. I don't yet want to go." We laughed at it some more and kept talking. He said, "If you slow down, you see wonders." He was right. That little guy was a wonder. It was beautiful.

After a while, he nudged the beetle off of his finger onto a plant near our table. It sat there contentedly for a few minutes before lifting its great body into the air again and continuing its clumsy course.

I didn't really know what to say after that. As my professor grinned at the beetle fumbling along his finger, one thought flooded my mind: Isn't this just what Jesus would be doing if I was sitting here with Him? 

I would bet the disciples' jaws dropped many times as they watched their Master interact with His creation. Maybe right in the middle of a painful conversation, He would reach up and let a beetle alight on His hand. Maybe He answered some of their questions by simply fingering the leaves of a tree. Maybe while they were walking along a dusty path, bickering and biting about the greatest in the kingdom or some other "important" matter, He was kneeling at the edge of the road, watching a rabbit nibble or a lizard disappear under a rock.  And if they had been paying attention, they would have realized that the simple delight He was having could have been theirs. 

In watching my professor as he gently cared for the beetle, his smile surely the same smile that crossed the face of the Carpenter countless times all those years ago, a few more thoughts also flitted through my head. One was that this was a picture of how we were meant all along to interact with God's creation. It's there, isn't it, for us to delight in? For us to care for? For us to slow down and enjoy and see at every point our Maker's fingerprints, to give Him glory for it all? I mean, that's what He does with it. Jesus says He pays attention to the sparrows. He clothes the blades of grass. Why else do you think He crafts sculptures in the clouds or sends a sunrise to light up a bustling, distracted city? We may not be taking the time to enjoy it, but He is—every time. 

I don't know about you, but when I actually slow my mind down enough to take in my Master's handiwork, I realize that it's singing. It's enraptured, endlessly, in a melody about the pure love, the relentless joy, and the perfect gentleness of the One who gave it life and holds it all together. He is so gentle with it, isn't He? I mean, if He's able to stitch together a dragonfly's wings, fashion the beautiful details of the microscopic world, direct the path of a molecule of water in an ocean wave, care for the birds and the beasts, and, gosh, cherish us...My hands aren't that strong, but I break things when I try to hold them sometimes. Yet His...With perfect gentleness—perfect because His strength is channeled towards tenderness—He holds His world and smiles at it.

And you know what that means? It means that's how He's holding us, too.

That beetle was completely safe and completely loved in my professor’s hands. It was happy. It got some coffee. It didn't want to leave. 

Do we realize that we are safe? Safe in the hands of the One whose tender touch and sweet breath continually give us life? 

Do we realize that we are loved? That His love is the sort that isn't phased by the list of frustrations we have with ourselves, that isn't disheartened when we trip and fall in the mud, that can't be disappointed, that can't be changed, that can't be decreased, that can't end? 

I know—really, I do—how hard it is to feel like this is true sometimes. But it is. And, frankly, we can't do anything about it.

When I started writing this post, I intended to leave you with this last part in the form of a question. I was wondering, myself, whether the perspective I was about to frame was a good one. I can't do that now. I've convinced myself otherwise. There can be no other way.

So instead of a question, dear heart, I give you an instruction, an exhortation, an encouragement: Deal gently with yourself. Your Maker isn't eyeing your list of frustrations. He's not paying attention to the disqualifications you've laid out for Him to see. He's not even hampered by the mold in your corners, the stuff you were trying to make sure He didn't see. He's not wondering if you'll stumble again on your way into His arms. He doesn't care if you flunked that class in high school or don't see yourself as able to participate in that beauty pageant. The pimples and the problems—and even the certificated successes—don't bother Him. He just wants you. 

You see, as much as we try to convince ourselves otherwise, His heart only has one disposition toward us. It's what the Hebrew writers called ḥesed, what the English translators render over and over again "steadfast love." It's covenant love, love sealed by blood, love that doesn’t quit. We mess up. We have the ability, I guess, to gather a list of all the things that make us dirty. But if He's not making that list, then we shouldn't either. If He has not condemned us, then we don't get to condemn ourselves. If He's decided to keep holding our cells together, to keep breathing into our lungs, then maybe we'd better stop cringing at the ways we think we've failed. Maybe we ought to let Him lift our chins and grasp our hands—and just accept His invitation to dance.

His call, as I see it in every flickering leaf and humming breeze, is to deal as gently with ourselves as my professor dealt with that beetle—for that, creation cries, is the same gentleness with which He is ever dealing with us.

Life Lessons from Pedro the Wise

Allow me to introduce you, most cordially, to the individual whose intense focus and exemplary perspective on life we will be here admiring in this most concise treatise. He is undeniably adored by all members of his large social group (except, perhaps, the mailman). Though outside these circles of relationship he is, admittedly, unknown, I do believe we all have a great deal to learn from his polished life philosophy and his enduring thoughts on many other matters, particularly the subject of joy.

His name, my dear friends, is Pedro. His wisdom, as I am sure you can see, is quickly evident in his regal features. Kindness and joy emanate from his dark eyes, and you would greatly cherish his quick kisses and almost endlessly wagging tail if you were to meet him in person. In addition to the brilliance in perspective which you will soon witness, his other skills include running, climbing mountains, serving as the house Sergeant, catching spiders, and even, it has been reported by his owners, engaging in intercessory prayer. Maybe not. But his paws have been said to smell like potato chips, so that's pretty cool.

Anyways. You will find below five basic principles of our esteemed friend's philosophy. These are, of course, summaries of his thought, gathered from my own observations of his daily habits. This, I am sure, you will appreciate, as the grammar of his actual speeches and writings is quite—er—complex...Yeah... So, as you relish the warm feelings surely ignited by this elaborate introduction (or, more likely, roll your eyes at my wordiness and relish the warm feelings actually brought about by Pedro's picture), join with me in a refreshing dive into his beautiful wisdom.

1. Food is always exciting. Also, walks are always exciting. And so is being pet. And riding in the car. And food. Did I mention food? Food is always exciting.

This was the first thing I noticed about Pedro. Every dog seems to have about the same perspective, but it was Pedro whose undying excitement made me think I had something to learn. You see, it doesn't matter how many times you ask him; he's always excited to do his favorite things. And his favorite things don't seem to be the things he gets to do on occasion. They're the simple things he just relentlessly enjoys every day. He loves breakfast and dinner and his daily walk—and he'll love them just as much tomorrow as he did today and has done every day before that. He finds unending pleasure in what we might call the monotony of daily life.

Two questions from here. The first: What if we did this? What if we chose to take joy in the humdrum of the hoedown—the little, professedly boring parts of the dance of life? What if we decided to really enjoy our oatmeal in the morning and our meanderings through the grocery store and our coffee and that day-end satisfaction of finishing our work? Can we slow down enough to delight in the everyday, monotonous habits of life? Part of me thinks that that's where much of life is found. Jesus seemed to find it there, anyway. He enjoyed the Transfiguration, I'm sure, but He also found apparently relentless satisfaction in another meal, another healing, another conversation, another day.

And that leads me to my second question: Do we realize that God does this? I'm serious. He still paints a sunrise every morning even if none of us happens to be awake to see it. He put tiny spots on ladybugs and wove together all sorts of cells to make us—intricate details that seem to delight Him over and over again. He never tires of creating day after day, of taking care of one more sparrow, or of picking us up after another fall. He delights in the monotony of life. He delights in life. We get so bogged down in worry and fear and all sorts of other things that we miss what I think seems to be the rhythm of all the rest of His creation and of His own heart: joy. Maybe Pedro—or that bird chirping outside your window—can encourage you to discover the beauty in the monotony, the humor in the habits, the joy in daily life.

2. I can pee on that bush. And that other bush. And that pole. And the fire hydrant. And, just for the heck of it, on that grass too. And, don't worry, I still have more for that other bush.

Honestly, I think there is a lot we can learn from this one. But here's what I'd like to pull from it, mostly because it's something I wrestle with often. It comes in another question (okay, a series of questions): How confident are we about leaving our "scent" on other people? How "okay" are we with letting people taste the real "us" and be impacted by that? How ready are we to purposefully leave a lasting touch on those with whom we come in contact—or even to admit that our presence will probably do that whether we realize it or not?

Sometimes, I struggle with the idea that my presence has an impact. I'll wish that I could walk about without being heard, watch and learn without being seen, or exist without touching anyone. I used to wish I didn't exist at all. The idea that my presence affects those around me has been known to irritate me immensely. 

But I'm learning something—not just from Pedro but from the truly freeing love of my church community and of Christ. Yes, our presence always has an effect. That's inevitable. And, beautifully, it is in this leaving of a "scent" that some of the most surprising glimpses of true humanity and also sublime connections between humanity and divinity happen. You see, when our presence touches others, they see our humanity. When we are touched by others, we see theirs. And when this happens among Christians, we see Jesus. 

Paul puts it this way: "But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumphal procession, and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him everywhere. For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing, to one a fragrance from death to death, to the other a fragrance from life to life" (II Corinthians 2:14-16a, ESV).

Maybe we should be a bit more bold about spreading this fragrance, passing on this aroma everywhere we go, regardless of how it's received. Pedro has no fear of peeing on every bush. He makes every place his territory. And he makes a special point to leave his scent in places where other dogs had done the same; he covers over their mark with his own and repeatedly claims the spot as his. 

Perhaps, like Pedro, we should be in the business of fearlessly letting our presence have an impact. We should be ready to be used by Christ to touch His people, excited to share with our very selves His fragrance over and over again—especially to those who are burdened by the lies of so many other scents from false authorities. We can remind by our scent who really owns the block. Let's not fear to let our lights shine before men.

3. Walks are, of course, never about the destination. Every bush is important.

That's life, friends. With Christ, our destination is sure. So let's not worry about it. Let's be more concerned with the journey, more intent on valuing each person we meet. We'll get home when it's time.

4. 'Tis important to always watch the house. You never know what the mailman—or those mischievous doves—might be up to.

Paul has told us to be alert and to put on the armor of God in its entirety. John told us to test the spirits. Jesus told us to keep watch. The Christian life is a battle; we've got to pay attention. We must be careful about what we let into our house (our mind, our heart, our body). And just as Pedro must listen to his owners when they tell him the "intruder" is actually a friend or that the doves are perfectly allowed to peruse the yard, we must be attentive and obedient to the leading of the Holy Spirit. He knows what's what. Let's stop our barking if He's trying to let in a friend.

5. Daddy is my favorite. 

Pedro seems to love pretty much everyone (save that poor mailman), but there's something pretty special about his reaction to his daddy. He just gets so excited to be with his master. He'll go with him anywhere, and he'll only let his eyes close if his daddy's the one saying, "Nighty night."

I think the connection here is pretty obvious. We should love everyone—but our Abba should be our favorite. Our Heavenly Father should be our first love. He, after all, is the One who'll lead us to green pastures and quiet waters, and it is His gentle voice that allows us to rest.

In summary? Pedro's advice is this: Lighten up a bit. Enjoy the breakfasts and dinners and walks. Don't be afraid to leave your scent on the bushes. Watch your house. And, most of all, make Abba your favorite.

Like a Fetter

"Look on him, beloved, and love him," said the first [eldil]. "He is indeed but breathing dust and a careless touch would unmake him. And in his best thoughts there are such things mingled as, if we thought them, our light would perish. But he is in the body of Maleldil and his sins are forgiven."

A curious quote, I am sure, for any of you who have not read C.S. Lewis' Perelandra. But the context of that grand story is not required to grasp my writing here. Just know that an eldil is a being quite beyond man whose closest parallel in the Christian worldview would be an angel, and Maleldil is Lewis' name in that story for Jesus Christ, God incarnate.

With this understanding, embrace the eldil's words again: "He [man, that is] is indeed but breathing dust and a careless touch would unmake him. And in his best thoughts there are such things mingled as, if we thought them, our light would perish. But he is in the body of Maleldil and his sins are forgiven."

Breathing dust. Fragile, delicate flickers of life, as faint as mist. One careless touch—no matter its origin—can unmake us. A little word, a thoughtless nudge. It could be all over in a second. And as if that wasn't enough, our threadlike existence isn't just fragile; it's flawed. We're as vulnerable as a butterfly—but we've lost a great deal of our color. Our thoughts are flimsy, and our spirits are faint. We're weak and riddled with sin. Our state seems hopeless.

Yet the eldil continues: "But he is in the body of Maleldil and his sins are forgiven."

It would be a vast understatement to say that my mind is blown to think that the God of the universe is so gentle and loving towards us. He could, if He wanted to, wipe us out in an instant. And, really, He has good reason to do that. We haven't honored Him like we should have.

But He doesn't squash us. "He remembers that we are dust" (Ps. 103:14, ESV). He decides to deal gently with us.

More than that, He decides to forgive us. He makes us part of His body and says we are clean. And nobody can argue with Him.

Sometimes life can make our heads spin, stretch us out until we feel like we might tear, frustrate us until we think we might lose it. Sometimes we do those things to ourselves. But the terrors and trials aren't the end of the story.

In the twists and turns of my own time on this planet, I've become absolutely convinced of something. I want to share it with you, for you can be anchored in it, too.

Look back on your life for a second. Where have you been? Has your Lord not been there with you? What have you been through? Did He not carry you? Where are you right now? Is He not there too? What's making your heart beat? Surely, it's He. Is there peace in a hurricane? He put it there. Did the sun rise today? It's because He drew it up. Is the earth still spinning? It's in the palm of His hand. Is there breath in your lungs? It was never your own. Your story only has one Author; you only have one Maker. There's One holding the universe together and sustaining your life. Has He not always been gentle with you? Has He not always been kind and abounding in steadfast love, even in discipline? Has He not cherished you and held you? Gathered every one of your tears in hands scarred with love? Is it remotely possible to deny that the Lord is good?

He has been gentle with us. He has been—and always is—good to us. As the psalmist says, "He does not deal with us according to our sins, nor repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is His steadfast love toward those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west, so far does He remove our transgressions from us" (Ps. 103:10-12, ESV).

By the blood of Jesus, we are forgiven and clean.

I don't know where you are right now or what you're thinking about your God. But would you take a deep breath and remember something? YHWH is good. Our Lord is good. He is good.

It doesn't matter what sorts of things are spinning around you right now. The breath in your lungs should be enough to convince you that He is still holding you, right in the eye of the storm, right in the heart of His peace. Draw near to Him. Rejoice and be refreshed in His undying love. And, with the saints of ages past, ask Him to just keep you right there, to tie you to His goodness so that you never, ever forget it.

Oh, Father. Let this be the prayer of our hearts.

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace.
Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount, I'm fixed upon it—mount of Thy redeeming love.

Here I raise my Ebenezer, hither by Thy help I come.
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger, wandering from the fold of God.
He, to rescue me from danger, interposed His precious blood.

Oh, to grace how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be.
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it. Prone to leave the God I love.
Here's my heart, Lord. Take and seal it. Seal it for Thy courts above.

Here's my heart, Lord. Take and seal it. Seal it for Thy courts above.

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Hymn lyrics are from the traditional hymn, “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” written in 1758 by Robert Robinson and altered in 1760 by Martin Madan. Public domain. Emphasis mine.

Never the Same

Yeshua. The son of the carpenter. I'd heard his name before. Ha, of course I'd heard his name before. Who hasn't around here? Though uneducated by all formal standards, though claiming a stunningly uncomplimentary origin from no less than Nazareth, though relatively unnoticeable in outward appearance, this man has made quite a name for himself. He is a teacher, a healer, a great speaker. Crowds and crowds of people have gone to listen to him for hours on end. The blind and the sick have been healed; the outcasts have been accepted. He's really got a great thing going on.

The interesting thing about teachers and healers, though, is that sometimes the idea of going to see one sounds far better the first time your friends suggest it than it does in your solitary reflections afterwards. You see, initially, I agreed to go and hear him when I first heard he was in town—but now, as we make our way there, I'm not so sure. Won't he know? They said he has eyes that seep into every part of your soul—dark depths of brown fire that see and love and heal all at once. I wanted to see them at first, but now...Oh, won't he know? Won't he see right through me? All the dirt, all the grime, all the messy, muddy filth—the deep, dark sins that have made me who I am? 

I know he'll see it. I know he will. It's not like I can mask myself—when every part of me reeks with sin and shame. There's no way a man of any insight will be able to look at me and miss it all. Envy burns within my heart. Anger seethes through my veins. Why? Why can't I just...

My thoughts are penetrated for a minute by the soft touch of my brother, who walks by my side. His calloused fingers brush across my forehead, carefully wiping the beads of sweat that had formed there as my soul tumbled in agony within me. He looks into my eyes with a gaze so gentle that my insides writhe in shame. He squeezes my hand and whispers, "We're almost there."

The others are silent. They've been pretty silent the whole time. It's a serious journey. They're probably praying. They're probably praying for me. Why? Why waste their time?...

I stop thinking for a moment and raise my gaze to the sky. Two clumsy puffs of cloud hang in the blue expanse, drooping as if they are as hot and exhausted as I am. I stare at them for some time, half-observing, as I do so, that my thoughts have been drifting in some strange tension between wanting, desperately, to see Jesus and thinking, painfully, that I really don't deserve his time. I'm a sinner. I'm a mess. My whole being is a wretched testimony of my mistakes. This thought is almost overwhelming. Ah, if only I hadn't agreed to come!

My musings are interrupted again, this time by the distant ringing of a deeply gentle but strikingly authoritative voice. I look at my brother. His eyes don't meet mine; they are fixed instead in the direction of the voice, and they burn with longing and, somehow, hope and joy. I look up to the sky again, my mind racing. We're here. That's him—the Teacher, the Rabbi. Oh, how I wish I could run! 

My companions dutifully usher me closer and closer to the sound, gradually pressing up against the many cloaked figures that make up the edge of the quivering crowd. My brother looks at me again, a twinge of angst flickering across his gaze. "There are too many," he says. "We can't get through."

A disgusting relief surges through me as I hear his analysis of the situation. I part my lips, hoping that I can somehow eek out some sort of advice on leaving quickly and trying again another day—you know, another day on which I won't be coming. Before a sound leaves my mouth, however, I find my companions nodding to one another and shuffling away with me towards the side of the house.

Oh no. I shut my eyes as tightly as I can, clenching my teeth and wishing—oh, I've never wished harder—that I could be somewhere else. No, no. I know what they're thinking. No. Don't—No. No!

Silence. I am too ashamed to even cry. I keep my eyes closed, crumbling in embarrassment. Oh, why...?

"Son."

I catch my breath. I open my eyes. There he is. Every thought fades from my mind as I hold his gaze. For the first time—really, for the first time in my life, I feel...hope. I can do nothing but stare into his face. He stares—so gently—into mine.

"Son," he says, a soft smile turning up the corner of his mouth, "Your sins are forgiven."

Sheer joy rushes through me. Peace ripples through my mind. I continue to stare into his eyes, feeling those words drive out the self-contempt, the shame, the fear. He keeps looking at me, that gentle smile stretching farther and farther across his face.

Then, suddenly, he looks away from me and into the crowd, as if responding to something—though I myself had not heard anyone speak. The smile evaporates from his face. He calls out, "Why do you question in your hearts?"

I follow his gaze for a moment. The Pharisees. Part of me wants to flinch. If they condemn me, I—I—would this Teacher's words mean anything then? But the Rabbi's peace calms my heart, holds me in the tension. He continues to speak. "Which is easier, to say, 'Your sins are forgiven you,' or to say, 'Rise and walk'?"

They're speechless, but I can see their jaws tighten. 

"But that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins—"

Suddenly the Teacher turns to me again, stretching out his hand.

"I say to you, rise, pick up your bed and go home."

His words seem to hit my chest with a force that—wait. My chest? Since when...? Then I notice a peculiar weight. I look down. Limbs. I can...I can feel them. I can...I can move them. They're heavy because they're there! I jump to my feet. My whole body quivers with excitement, relishing in this new feeling. Standing! I'm standing! I look at my brother, words escaping me as I face him, for the first time, on my feet. His grin is gigantic, and he wraps me in a great hug, kissing my cheek as tears roll down his worn face. I look back at the Rabbi, the Healer. Words are, um...I know not what to say.

He smiles at me again, so gently. His quiet joy calms my heart and reminds me of his command. I reach down, pick up my bed, and make my way through the astonished crowd. They part for me as I exit. I'm not sure what they are thinking. I don't care. As I close my eyes and smile, I can feel the Rabbi's warm gaze on my back. He healed me. I am forgiven.

Yeshua. I've heard that name before. "Yahweh saves." Mmm. That he does.

They were right about those eyes, you see. Dark depths of brown fire—they do see. They see everything. Hm. And they love. They heal. I am forgiven.

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Quotations from Scripture are pulled from Mark 2:1-12 and Luke 5:17-26, ESV. This narrative was originally written for and performed (by me) as a dramatic reading during a Lenten service at Faith Worship Community, Costa Mesa, CA (2016).