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Category: jesus here jesus there

  • knees

    Knees upon earth. Knees upon cobblestones. Knees upon cold, ceramic tiles and carpets and knees upon the rocky banks of a trickling creek. Knees upon hopes and dreams. Knees upon grassy knolls and knees upon snow, cold and wishing. Knees upon concrete. Knees upon hospital linoleum. Knees upon the torn battlefields of love and war and knees upon bedroom floorboards. Knees upon hands and hands upon knees…

    And so the man knelt before him, and asked him. And Jesus looking at him, loved him.

    And then he asked him to take off his shoes.

    Kind of. I mean, in a metaphorical sense.

    He told the guy to take off his shoes (kind of) because the ground beneath was holy – not that the young man didn’t sort of know it already, remember, he was on his knees from the start. But there was something missing, and it had to do with his shoes (…kind of).

    I mean, really it had to do with issues, the kind that make you feel deep down like a god. Make you think you’re God himself. Make you make decisions that feel safe because they keep issues where we’ve always tried to keep them: out of sight, out of mind.

    Issues like identity. Issues like law. Issues like honor. Issues like…how to love. Because love is hefty. You try to shoulder love, and it’ll take a minute. It’ll take your breath away. Don’t expect love to be a drippy faucet sort of thing. Love is a Pacific wave. Pick that up. You’ll feel it in the morning.

    And if you don’t pick it up, then keep your issues on and low to the ground. And don’t go running up to Jesus and fall on your knees because he’ll love you alright. He’ll love you, and he won’t leave you where you’re at, with your shoes on desecrating holy ground. With your tried and true issues. He will most definitely challenge you to stand, to get up off your knees.

    Knees…

    Knees that bleed. Knees that bruise and break open and fingers touching wounded knees with ginger attention to the sting. Knees that swell over time. Knees that twist and tweak and tear. Knees that give it all, give even more, give out, give in, give up. Knees that wrinkle. Knees that bend. Knees that wobble and knock and crack with every step. Knees that scar.

    Knees in crawling. Knees in falling. Knees in the deepest need of something new, something real. Knees in feeling, the whole spectrum through, from now to later to someday and never. Knees in teaching. Knees in asking. Knees in hoping that something might change and knees in begging for nothing to change and knees in waiting for the uncertain inevitable thing. Knees in fighting. Knees in praying…

    Okay, so Jesus didn’t say anything about shoes. That was a funny, little wordplay thing; convenient though, for the moment, isn’t it? That we take off our shoes in humility and we let go of issues in…humility? But okay. Let’s get literal. Love is a legitimate responsibility. It’s a calling. For Jesus, it’s his very nature, and he expects nothing less than the annihilation of the false self. The issues that make you think you’re some kind of god are exactly the issues he’s asking you to take off. And in the case of the young man on his knees, Jesus knew in his gut that it would take more than some lip service to the law. Life change requires new habits. Tangible, new habits. Love is something that happens. So, Jesus tells the guy to step into something heavy and hard because he loves him, and he wants him to flourish in love.

    Oh, and love isn’t only that Hollywood moment under moonlight (though it sometimes is). It isn’t only romance. In this story, it’s not that at all, not even close.

    Really, love is the thing we do when we notice the humanity of the person beside us and we take some time and energy to invest in that.

    Love looks like a mother bending to listen closely to her child’s story, no matter how many times it’s already been told. Love looks like deciding to sit next to the person that isn’t interesting, that talks too much, that kind of smells. Love looks like an intentional choice to be present in a moment with another person.

    That’s what Jesus is calling the young man into, and then the guy just rises from his knees and walks away.

    Now, that’s weird. He runs to Jesus, and he falls to his knees. He yearns, remember? I don’t think it’s for show. He’s looking for answers to messy, painful questions: How do I live truly? How can I do this life thing right? You don’t get the impression that he’s faking. He’s on his knees after all, and then there’s Jesus’ reaction. He doesn’t rebuke him or call him a snake. Looking at him, he loves him. Apparently, this guy is on the right track. There’s a readiness in him to drop everything for the sake of the truth. And then…he mopes? But, no, this is not the moping kind of dude. He doesn’t walk away all whiny and self-righteous and ticked.

    The young man walks away deeply grieved.

    Yes, he’s ready to drop everything for the sake of the truth, but the truth is, he’s too weak. He can’t do it on his own. He can’t take that step and let go of his wealth, and he knows it. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to. It’s that he can’t.

    His current issues loom too large. So, he gets up off his knees.

    Knees…

    Knees say sorry. Knees say take that. Knees say take me. Knees say it’s all over, there’s nothing left, and knees say thank God, there it is. Knees say oops. Knees say finally. Knees say yes and no and some knees say maybe. Knees say it’s not the end, it’s never the end, but knees say I can’t do it anymore too. Knees say we’re almost there. Knees say why.

    Knees say thank you.

    The young man stands, tragic in his own strength, with his issues smothering him, and walks away from Jesus. And maybe that’s the end.

    But maybe not.

    I like to imagine that the young man saw Jesus once more. And I see him, the young man, wrecked and on his knees yet again, days after the crucifixion. He’s shaking with sobs. He’s asking himself why he couldn’t let go, why he still can’t, and what it might have been like. He suspects, now more than ever, that Jesus was something special, but now he’s dead. Of course, the typical rumors of a messiah still alive, still winning, they circulate, but it’s game over, deep down everyone knows, and the young man can’t help but feel he missed it. Maybe we all missed it, he thinks, and he’s talking about the messiah, and he’s talking about the people of God, and he’s talking about God himself – but under his breath, of course.

    And that’s why he flinches and gasps when a voice behind him says, “So, that’s it, huh? Story’s over?”

    Nobody is supposed to be here, in the private quarters of his mansion, and the young man wipes a sleeve across his tears and looks up to rebuke whichever servant meandered in too close for comfort, and he sees Jesus’ face.

    A million thoughts mob his brain. One catches his attention as he stares at the teacher. One: let go, now. For the first time in his life, the young man doesn’t know what to do, so he stays on his knees. He asks himself if he could ever let go of his wealth. Could he let go of his security?

    He wonders and watches the face. How…? he thinks to himself. The rumors…

    Jesus’ eyes crinkle at the corners, they shine. Somehow this face that was bloodied and dead is back, this man is actually back, and he’s here. Jesus is saying something, but a rushing sound fills the young man’s ears. He can see the mouth of the messiah moving, but he can’t hear the words; he can see Jesus’ eyebrows lifting and the mouth slipping into a smile. Muffled words. The young man lifts a shaky hand to massage his eyes; something aching in his mind. The roaring sound of wind or rain retreating.

    When the young man opens his eyes, Jesus is gone, and the young man is still, on his knees.

    Luke 18:18-27 • Matthew 19:16-30 • Mark 10:17-27

  • a neighbor

    Sometimes when Jesus told stories, Peter closed his eyes. Time slowed down. The story came with images in his mind.

    The man lost consciousness when they broke his arm.

    At first, he thought he might be able to talk his way out of it. Before they broke his arm. He thought maybe he could just surrender his money bag. It had been his father’s, a gift, handmade, but maybe a price worth paying to save his life. They had weapons – fists and swords and teeth. He had a punchable face, so he’d been told, and that’s all he knew of a fight.

    Maybe they would take his donkey too. That would be unlucky, but he would manage. And once the donkey and the money bag with his father’s insignia were gone, he wouldn’t attract any more attention.

    Well, he was right about that.

    He didn’t wake up for a while. Impossible to say how long he was out. The sun didn’t seem to have moved in the sky. He couldn’t really tell, though. He couldn’t roll over because everything hurt, and his arm was this new part of him, teaching him how to be this new human body. A body of pain.

    His left eye was swollen almost totally shut. His nose was a wet bag of blood and bone. Lying on his stomach with the right side of his face in the dirt, he could just barely see the road through the battered remains of his left eye. Bones were probably broken there too. A quiet wind picked up and aimless dust fumbled back and forth across the road. Then, the wind died down. He tried to open his other eye to get a better view, but he couldn’t lift his head against the pain; he closed it again. Another stifled breeze wandered past along with a sudden darkness.

    When he woke again, it was much later, and the afternoon heat had subsided. Only the most reckless travelers would be out now, with sundown just a few hours away. He stretched his toes. Or he tried to. Movement of any muscle, no matter how small, activated a tidal wave of pain that rushed from his lower back, up his spine, through his arms and neck. He gasped and generated another violent burst.

    This time he held his breath until it was over.

    Through the slit of his eye, he could still see the road. The air was still. A tiny ridge of windswept dirt and rocks and sand lay piled along the edge of the barren road. A scorpion arched its tail, shuddered, scuttled a few steps away. The sun was behind his field of vision, spraying everything with a menacing brightness. Especially that scorpion. It flicked its yellow head. Shimmering light and heat made everything beyond the creature blurry; for some reason, its raised tail was entirely in focus. The black stinger glistened and trembled. Nothing made a sound anywhere along the forsaken stretch of highway.

    The sun sank lower. A vulture traced lazy circles. The scorpion darted out of sight, somewhere behind his turned head. If it weren’t for the incessant, pulsing pain in his back and elbow he might have been worried. Instead, he wondered if the venom might ease his suffering.

    He closed his wounded eye. Too long he’d kept it open, straining for the vision of a figure on the road from Jerusalem. He let his mind drift; his father’s hands, cutting and drying and sewing together a brand new pouch; his brother, setting sail all those years ago, the water shining with false promise; a flower, violet and frozen with an early frost, held in the palm of his hand; memories. What would it be like to freeze? Or would it be something else? He knew he wouldn’t last the night.

    The priest could see the broken form of a man, sprawled on the ground to the side of the road. A careful look around confirmed that nobody else was nearby. You can’t ever be too sure, though, you know, said the priest to himself. He moved to the other side of the road. He forced his knees into the ribs of his animal. Hurry would keep him safe here. His schedule and some well-placed religion. More talking, perhaps? As he came closer and closer to the figure, the priest began to mutter pious words. He made sure to raise his voice over the harried groans from below; he was out of earshot within minutes.

    Another religious leader came not too long after. He didn’t actually notice the body until he’d passed it by. Stopping, he turned, and after disembarking from his donkey, he crept toward what he could now see was a man, badly beaten and whimpering. The man was missing teeth, bloody all over; the passerby couldn’t make out what the injured man was saying, and he stayed frozen in a defensive crouch for several minutes. His hand was held out and up, almost as if to ward away the garbled pleas of the dying man. Yes, dying, came the thought. Certainly dying and almost dead and what can I do about that? His attackers –

    Then, panic. A sudden jerk of the shoulders and knees, as if under tremendous weight; this second passerby spun in one, then two clumsy circles, tripped toward his donkey, and fled. A lethargic vision of dust remained, floating and noncommittal.

    A song on humble lips. Through the fog of his tortured mind, he could hear it, and he tried to open his eyes, both of them in one, final effort. Of course, he couldn’t. Pain was his master; movement his supreme enemy. He couldn’t even moan. A hiss of desperation bubbled up from deep within and came choking out of his throat. Too soon. This new man, this voice singing on the road – it was impossible for him to have noticed.

    And then.

    “My friend.”

    Here, in this wasteland? A friend?

    “My friend, you’re hurt.” The voice, no longer singing, but still full of music. “Do not be afraid.”

    Days later, sunlight. But of a gentle kind; this light wasn’t crushing him with its indifferent heat. In fact, nothing was crushing him – no heat, no despair, no pain. He opened his eyes, both of them. His left still seemed a bit swollen, but it opened nonetheless, and his right wasn’t buried in dirt. Looking around, he could see the comfortable, precious decorations of a familiar guest room. In fact, he’d been in this exact one before, on his trip to Jericho two years prior. He recognized the jagged line cutting through the wall beside him. He remembered the particular fragrance of this place: flowers he couldn’t name, and something else.

    And nothing was crushing him.

    When Jesus finished telling the parable, Peter opened his eyes. The crowd was fidgeting. Many of them had already left, and soon none would remain. The lawyer stood still before Jesus for a while until he finally shrugged, giving Jesus a weighty nod and smile, and walked away. There was something lonely in his eyes as he left and something jaded, but there was also a chink in the armor, an authentic light revealed, and Peter couldn’t help but wonder if he might see this man again someday. Humility. It’s contagious, thought Peter, and he watched Jesus stand silently until everybody was on their way home.

    “Teacher, a question?” asked Peter when Jesus turned.

    “You know me, Cephas,” Jesus grinned.

    They walked for a heartbeat, quiet together.

    “Eternal life. It isn’t about law or license. And how to be a neighbor is more important than who it is that qualifies. And how isn’t about qualifications or proper attention. It’s mercy. It’s unbridled, ridiculous mercy.”

    Jesus stopped and put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “That’s not a question, Cephas.” A soft chuckle.

    “Okay.” Peter laughed briefly, shivered, and let out a breath. “Eternal life. How can I inherit eternal life? That’s what the guy asked. And then he kept going, and he tried to make distinctions, and of course there are no distinctions – even my worst enemy is my neighbor, I get it…but there’s more. True heirs of eternal life aren’t busy checking religious boxes. True heirs are getting their hands dirty with mercy. They’re on their knees, touching the sick and wounded. True heirs are doing because words can be too hollow, and we need thick and heavy love. True heirs aren’t consumed with appearances or events or articulate theology. These people are too humble to be cool, too present to be busy. True heirs might not have all the right churchy boxes checked, and they might not even know the terms of all the boxes, but they’re definitely not walking past the oppressed, the persecuted, or the hurting on their way to their next religious duty. True heirs, true religion – ”

    “Peter.”

    A pause. Jesus’ hands on Peter’s shoulders, both hands now, eyes full of playful humor. Peter’s breath held quick and shallow in the chest. Waiting. Did I misunderstand? Did I get it wrong?

    “Peter,” Jesus’ voice again, and he’s holding back a smile. “Peter, that’s not a question.”

    Laughter, uncontainable. It bursts forth. It compels us.

    May our love be the laughter of our faith.

    Luke 10:25-37

  • the grass is green

    Five thousand empty faces. Seven thousand, maybe eight.

    Faces without expression. Faces lacking desire, void of intent, tilting toward collapse outside the city.

    “Can’t you see the people are hungry?”

    Ten thousand absent eyes. More.

    I whisper heavy lies into gaping ears. It’s too easy. The words just tumble in – down the drain, into the brain – it’s so simple! I remind them of choking dust on the road ahead, death and taxes, yesterday’s mistakes. I tell them anything at all, really, just not the truth. Anything but the whole truth.

    The mob moves forward in the stupid shuffle of a dying herd, desperate for guidance, ignorant of direction. They don’t see me, not right now. I mean, I could show myself if I wanted to, and they would see me, oh, would they!

    Someday.

    For now, I caress their hollow, sagging cheeks from behind my veil. They look half starved. For now, I’ll have to be content with that.

    An annotated itinerary:

    We left for the lake a while, maybe an hour, ago. We’re walking in this nasty mess of a huddle, people keep bumping shoulders, and even in the best of human company that can be awkward and sweaty, but here it’s deliciously worse because so many are sick. We’ve got it all, coughing and gagging and wheezing; lesions and scabs and blood.

    I trace a dripping trickle of it with the nail of my pinky finger. Lift it to my lips. It’s the nectar of human dread and despair. Tastes like vinegar and metal and sweet, sweet victory. But I digress.

    We’re walking, some of us stumbling, toward the water. Up ahead, the pathetic king awaits. I can see him with his rabble. They’re gathered, even now, together on the hill before us, and that’s our first stop. First up, and it’s only getting started, this doomed journey of his. I got it all planned out and I cannot, literally cannot, wait.

    A snap of the fingers and I’m squatting next to him on the hill.

    “BOO!” It’s a classic jump scare I’ve tried a million times before. You know him. He deserves it. I do this thing where I make my eyes real big and kind of bloodshot, and I smile like all I want is to chew his face off. I swear this time he jumped.

    “Hey.”

    Hey, he says. Like he didn’t just soak his goofy robe.

    “Gotcha that time, obviously. You’re getting soft.”

    He looks at me. Just looks, says nothing. That little, holy smile.

    “What do you want?” he asks after a couple seconds. I give him a good eye roll. I belch. He always hates that. The crowd persists in its lethargic advance below us.

    “I want you to die, but I guess we both know that ain’t gonna to happen. I don’t know. Right now, I pretty much just want you to get really stressed out.” I grin. All the teeth, especially the rotten ones.

    He sits there for a beat, arms around his knees, and he’s still looking at me. Into me, actually, and I gotta say…it doesn’t feel right. What kind of maniac cares so much?! I belch again and blow, inches from his mouth and nose now, and he turns his head to look at the crowd. Heeehee! I bet he can taste me.

    “I know you been tired. I know you came here to rest.” He doesn’t say anything. He just keeps watching the people; they’re gathered in the grass at the foot of the hill now. Some of them are pointing, and some of them are coming up here. “Wimp. I know you’re wiped. I heard you talking to Daddy. No solitude for you, man. Gotta keep the people happy.”

    “See the color?”

    I don’t know what it is with this guy. The color? What?! That’s what I’m thinking, and I’m looking out there, and I see all kinds of colors. I tell him.

    “Getting soft and getting old too, huh? Can’t see anymore. Your eyes are getting weak, buddy. Probably just as well. There’s all the blood puddling in goopy wounds. I call that color candy, you call it red. There’s grey, those are my guys, my shadows, whispering and fostering bad vibes. I see some white which has become, by the way, one of my favorites. So easy to stain. White clothing, white baskets, white loaves, white (and totally dead) fishies. Let’s see – ”

    “Green.”

    “…green? Okay, yeah, I noticed a girl gagging up – ”

    “Stop,” he says. Stop. Man, I hate that. MAN, I really HATE when he does that. And his crummy face, so sad and hopeful, and so ready. He looks at me, for a second, and even though I know his guys are too busy freaking out – plus they don’t really believe in me anyway – even though I know they’re occupado, I cringe and I can’t help glancing around. He came here to rest. I know that too.

    And now I know, now I can see, he looks totally rested.

    “Green grass,” he says, holding out a hand towards the people, gathered now, ready to feed from – from what!!? What does he have to offer?

    “Grass is stupid,” I say. I gotta say something. “Grass is for sheep.”

    “Exactly,” he says. And then in the space of a second which feels like a lifetime, he gives me a nod and leaps to his feet.

    “Philip!”

    And I’m running now, okay? I’m sorry, but I’m outta here, I can’t watch this, and I’m pushing past the faces gazing up at him. Faces. Five thousand hungry faces. More! I’m trying to close my eyes, and I’m tripping and this SUCKS AND I CAN STILL SEE THEIR FACES LIT WITH HIS LIGHT TEN THOUSAND EYES BURNING ANDTENTHOUSANDDIRTYHANDSTWELVETHOUSANDEVENGRUBBYHUMANFINGERSGRABBINGSTUPIDSHEEPWITHOUT-”

    “Philip!” He calls, and the crowd goes quiet. The sun is low. The water is still. The grass is green. “Can’t you see the people are hungry? Let’s get some food.”

    Matthew 14:21 • Mark 6:34, 39 • Luke 9:12 • John 6:5 • Psalm 23

  • passing intentions

    Moses was not even ready.

    And I mean not even close. Picture my dude shuddering behind the boulder where God put him – and the Fear is all like, Buddy, you don’t have a clue. Just. You. Wait.

    Picture Moses kind of wide-eyed (like the proverbial deer) and thin-lipped (you know, the kind of smile that might also mean indigestion), his interior self projected on his face for Yahweh’s good-natured kicks and giggles (and Yahweh is chuckling, right, and we’ll talk about that in a second). Moses couldn’t have known, really, how that trembling grin he kept wiping with the back of his hand was nowhere near hidden. He couldn’t have known. He was too busy trying not to wet himself: God!

    That’s what he was whispering.

    God! God! God!

    And speaking of kicks and giggles, the Lord of Hosts was prepping to burst back into sight, full-on glory mode raging, and he must have been eating it up. Picture this: he’s a couple of boulders around the corner, and he’s fighting back a smile. Picture Yahweh maybe blowing into his cupped hands in eager anticipation, maybe cracking his knuckles, maybe doing a couple of jumping jacks to get the blood flowing. Maybe he starts up a private little chant: 2, 4, 6, 8, who do we appreciate? God! And then he leaps forward, knowing all Moses can see is his backside – and yessir! it’ll be leaving all kinds of holy impressions!

    Picture God, having fun with this. Thrilled, maybe. Picture Moses. Cowering, craning, curious. It’s exhilarating.

    Could this be?

    The ecstasy of closer knowing. The celebration of intimacy.

    He meant to pass them by.

    Jesus sent them ahead into the storm, and when he decided to follow, he planned to walk on past. How often does this happen? The walking on water part: quite rare, generally. And the walking past? I mean, is this guy (ie: Jesus) known for strolling on by? Is that his M.O. – to slip past the needy, to ignore the hurting, to tiptoe around in the dark?

    You probably already know it’s not.

    Almost like he just couldn’t resist; like the moment activated the spark of divine comedy within him as it had the Fear millennia ago. Like Father like Son.

    You see, it’s almost like he’s doing this on purpose. It’s a reference.

    Show me your glory.

    Okay. Well, here it is.

    The Lord, the Lord!

    A man sits in his own stench, moaning lackluster salutations. His eyes drip. His legs coil limp and loose beneath him. He whispers, God…

    And it seems no one can hear.

    A woman shudders; loneliness rips like blades through her veins. Her pain is constant. She bleeds. It might be the isolation that started it. Could be the other way around, that it began the isolation. It is her shame, her ritual. She asks the question: God?

    Maybe you ask that question too?

    A child dies. The city shrugs. Too many children. Too many dying and living and dying eventually. What’s a child look like to the blank face of biological disaster? Just another person.

    But not to the parents. That goes without saying. And the father is running, running without knowing. And the mother is kneeling – knowing but kneeling anyway.

    Bad news: it’s too late. Things are broken, and they’ll stay that way. Don’t be a bother. Fissures in the father’s face. A sudden, crinkling quiet in the landscape. You could crumple the whole thing and toss it; you could send it up into the clouds on paper wings. You could, if you were God incarnate.

    Maybe you would.

    Instead, the voice of Jesus: Don’t be afraid. It’s me. Trust me.

    He meant to pass them by.

    People shouting: Son of David! Jesus!

    People reaching out, grabbing his clothes; falling at his feet, pleading: My little daughter is dying.

    He meant to pass them by. He meant to be passing by. He intended to be passing. He’s walking past and being noticed. He intends to be noticed. He invites this. He invites awe. He invites wonder. He invites worship.

    He invites you.

    Oh, and last thing: he’s not hiding, though I suppose we shouldn’t be too hard on ourselves; it’s hard to imagine even a glimpse of the glory of God and more difficult yet to recognize that which we cannot fathom.

    Fathom this.

    Jesus was probably standing when Jairus fell at his feet. He’d just stepped off the boat, and it remained, rocking in a gentle pulse, the water shed of its intermittent animosity as he met the surging crowd. They were always hungry. So, Jesus took a breath in that open stance of his (his disciples, noticing, took harrowed breaths of their own) and began to teach. Well, he said a few words or so, and that’s when Jairus fell at his feet. The crowd was flabbergasted to see a leader of the synagogue so close up, so frantic, so humiliated. He said something, but no one could hear above the murmuring – he said it again, this time to jeers. Only when Jesus held up his hand did the crowd relent, and in the ensuing quiet, Jairus spoke again: My little daughter is dying.

    And before he could get to the please – the request he’d so eloquently crafted – Jesus was suddenly in the dirt beside him, their heads as one, Jesus’ cheek against Jairus’, initiating divine closeness in this human contact, the curling of the hair of their beards, interlinked, their ears pressed against each other, and Jesus’ hand, his right hand, on Jairus’ left shoulder. They knelt like that, against each other, and those closest in the crowd saw Jairus sob and reach to grab a fistful of Jesus’ cloak in his right hand, twisting. They stayed that way for a moment.

    It’s later that he walks on the water, and at that point he’s chuckling, making a joke to make a point. He’s trying to get them to notice.

    It’s even later when he pulls a few of his friends aside and straight up does the holy shining thing on a mountain.

    And here too, though, he revealed his glory, and we have seen it. Here too, kneeling and holding his sobbing enemy. Here we were behind him, some of us in the boat, some even sitting in the dirt right there, right behind him. Here we saw his glory as we would again on the water when he walked across waves, again on the mountain, again in the garden, again on the tree, again, again, again we saw and gasped, God?! when we saw him stooping so for love – the Son of Man bending in holy imitation of the backside of the Fear.

    Exodus 33:18-23 • Exodus 34:5-6 • Mark 5:21-43 • Mark 6:48-51 • Mark 9:2-3 • Mark 10:47-48 • John 1:14

  • lover / beloved

    For Maryam, it was, at first, something in his eyes. When he touched her with the knowing in them. Out of time. That’s how she felt when he looked at her. Timeless. And it was his eyes that did that to her, lifted her out of the burgeoning insecurities of her late adolescence, those few times outside the synagogue, and that other time, at the spring festival, when he noticed her, and she noticed that, and his gaze elevated her to heights unknown – or more known.

    Maybe it was the knowing, actually, that did it to her. Because the knowing wasn’t just in his eyes, it was in his hands too, and in his lips. In his tongue.

    When they met, Maryam felt known like she’d never felt before. He made her promises in that intimacy; from the beginning, she trusted the rapture of those words. The very first time was at the end of the summer, at the end of a week of noticing (and then watching and then finally idolizing) his wife at the market. The woman was everything that Maryam, thirsty in her youth, was not: graceful and delicate and curvy and tempting. Maryam watched her barter with the vendors, day after day, her dark eyes dancing beneath her headscarf, trading the salesmen silent fantasies in exchange for cheaper produce. Allure and total command. The men were intoxicated by this woman so in touch with herself. She knew her magic.

    Maryam craved that power.

    And she took it.

    A frenzied fantasy reel sweeping wildly through her mind, and she, sneaking through the neighborhood alleys toward his home. Sounds from the marketplace receding. She held her right hand against her heaving chest, to catch her breath, to confess perhaps; but only to herself. To know her lust and to feel his. She whispered a hurried prayer, some kind of desperate plea to pagan gods, and she pushed forward. And then she was at his massive, ornate door. It loomed above her, majestic. It promised her meaning.

    Knock, knock.

    The heavy sounds, a gamble for adoration – because who doesn’t worship the woman of a wealthy man? And what woman sits on that throne for free? Turning, making sure no one heard, looking at her own footprints that led backward to her very different, very poor life on the other side of town. Then, hearing the door open, turning to see him pulling her in.

    That was the first kiss, his lips soft and welcoming, and it had only been a kiss. His wife had been on her way home. That’s what he’d said, and then he’d sent her away, and Maryam was too young to have caught the hollow tone in his voice, couldn’t have known the something else in his eyes that evening, something lurking behind his knowing. She couldn’t have figured it out. Some lessons need lived.

    And then there were all the times after that. Six, seven times. More. Later and later in the night. Knock, knock, knock, the consummating sound of her temptation. In his home, every time. He would tell her the date, the hour; she would sneak through desolate streets. She never wondered where his wife might be. Then, at the door he always met her with the same kiss, and though his lips remained soft, time exposed a chapped and vicious hunger in him.

    And Maryam began to feel ashamed.

    She began to realize that it actually wasn’t in his eyes; there was no depth to his knowing.

    He ate her. He drank her.

    And the only reason she kept going back to the heavy door was because nobody else would use her quite so thoroughly as this ever again, and to be sucked dry of dignity was at least a type of identity, and the life of a rich man’s plaything was better than the squalor and starvation she could see around the corner…

    …right?

    But what about the death of a rich man’s plaything?

    Until the very last, she’d still imagined he might make her his own, forever. Divorce wasn’t so hard for a man like him, and wasn’t he ready yet? For her? For what she could give him? She received his message at the end of the night, much later than was typical, and hurried to meet him with the sun chasing after her on the skyline. Right away, she knew something was different. He was almost apologetic, every caress worth a thousand empty words. He undressed her with painstaking languor, not with his former savagery, and his eyes had lost that which she had once mistaken for desire. He has no appetite today, she thought, and almost simultaneously heard the fists against the door of her brittle fantasy.

    Death comes knocking.

    Knock, knock.

    And the hired men drag her naked, by the hair, out the door, into the street – but not before they have their sport, at least a little bit, while the religious elite watch and roll their eyes.

    But it’s not the laughter or their hands or the dragging that really hurt. It’s that he watches the mockery they make of…whatever this was…

    He watches, and in his eyes is a very different kind of knowing: perverted hilarity. He always knew this was coming. They drag her away and he watches.

    And Maryam shuts her eyes as they pull her body through the city, but they don’t go as far as she expects, not backward toward the edge of town where she lives, but deeper in, into the center, until they finally drop her, and she doesn’t open her eyes because she doesn’t need to see to know there’s a crowd. She can hear the hum of accusation. And she doesn’t need to see to know she’s at the center of it all, in the temple courtyard, entirely alone. She doesn’t open her eyes. She rolls to her side, and she uses her hands to cover her body, and presses her face to the earth, but calloused hands yank her to her feet, and she is made to stand.

    She lowers her head and can hear the pit groaning underneath the ground, yawning for her.

    She can hear the mob hissing as a man shouts, and she only catches bits and pieces: “Rabbi!! See! What do you say?”

    She can hear them gathering the stones they will use to kill her.

    And then, she can hear something else.

    A finger writing names in the dust.

    Wind breathing through the courtyard. She shivers when it kisses her skin, and it’s eerily quiet. So, she opens her eyes.

    Maryam would never again awake to such perfect silence. And then.

    Daughter.

    A voice. Where? She could still see the mob. They were clumped together, faces and bodies and fists. They were hysterical and full of teeth. They were definitely in ambush around her.

    And they were frozen.

    Maryam couldn’t resist. She lowered her hands, she turned in a half circle, head still bowed –

    And nobody moved a muscle. She wiped the dust from her shoulder on which she had fallen just seconds ago; she could almost still hear the gnashing teeth.

    And the writing!

    Maryam.

    No one had ever said her name like that. This was a new kind of man.

    She spun around, holding her arms against herself again, hiding her vulnerability as best as she could, preparing to shield her body from the stones, and in the same breath she was covered head to toe in a billowing robe smelling of cedar, inhaling the fragrance like it might heal her, an aroma to save. Somebody’s hands holding her own.

    Maryam, he said again, and he slipped the hood of the cloak back from her face, gently squeezed her two hands with one of his and rested his other against her cheek and let go; she was terrified – he took a step back. He waited.

    When she looked up, it was finally in his eyes; a knowing in the eyes of this new man she’d never seen. A type of knowing that gave and didn’t take. A type of knowing that affirmed dignity instead of stripping it, and this knowing in his eyes was, at last, a naming free of condemnation.

    Beloved, he said.

    And the crowd was gone.

    And new life with the risen sun.

    Leviticus 20:10 • Jeremiah 17:13 • Hosea 14:4-6 • John 8:2-11

  • fully

    The sun had set and darkness hovered over the city.

    Yet, the people of Jerusalem hardly noticed. The torch light was enough. The light of the sun, though useful, was not necessary. So, darkness settled lower, sinking deeper into the bones of the city and the souls of its citizens. Meanwhile, Jesus and his disciples stood in the temple.

    An incredible day of celebration behind them, the disciples now felt themselves caught up in the rapture of the temple’s beauty. Walls rose higher than trees and gold shimmered brighter than stars. Below, men busied themselves with closing up shop and counting the final sums. The disciples whispered in their amazement, excitedly discussing the sacrifices they might acquire for themselves. Jesus stood quietly. From time to time, his friends nudged him, asking him his opinion of the colossal monument and the holy activity within. Each time, however, Jesus seemed distant, lost in thought, and eventually someone suggested that they begin their journey to Bethany, to rest.

    The sun rose a handful of hours later. The disciples were finishing breakfast when Jesus stepped back into the home after going out alone in the morning to pray, according to his habit. If any had sensed a tiredness, or a sadness about him last night, that had clearly passed with the darkness. He stood now before them decided. Several disciples even asked him, “Jesus, what do you have in mind to do?” He answered, as he often did, with a question and then walked out the door.

    “Do you trust me?”

    And then things moved quickly. The sun stood powerfully in the sky, illuminating their path, and they followed Jesus, excited and a little bit concerned. His steps were sure; he moved with a purpose in mind. Suddenly, he turned off the path, toward a fig tree in the distance. His disciples, glancing at each other, turned likewise and followed. As they reached the tree, they could see Jesus, who had hurried ahead of them, gazing into the branches. They gathered around him, under the leaves. For a brief moment, the Earth stood still and the wind ceased and the leaves hung in time suspended. The disciples awkwardly tried to decide who should tell Jesus that it wasn’t the season for figs, when he suddenly laughed aloud. He looked for a moment at John, then Peter, and the endearingly mischievous light in his eyes was so familiar. He had something planned – something beautifully strange. Then he cursed the tree for bearing no fruit.

    The sun was burning bright in the sky when Jesus burst into the temple. The disciples came in several seconds later, two here, then three, and so forth. Jesus had sprinted from the fig tree all the way to Jerusalem, all the way up the steps of the House of God and it was all they could do to keep him in sight.

    John, always the fastest runner, had burst into the temple and barely missed being run over by an escapee: a goat for the sacrifice had been let loose and John looked wonderingly to Jesus who held the keys to the cages of the animals who only hours earlier had been prepared as offerings. When the rest finally caught up to him inside, they tried to make sense of the scene in front of them as they gasped for breath: Jesus was literally throwing tables and chairs into the air and out the door. Incredibly, none of the merchants or scribes of the temple were opposing him. Indeed, in the chaos, it even seemed that some were kneeling before him.

    Immediately, when the last of his friends came in through the door, Jesus stopped in the center of the room and Peter whispered to John, “Look at his eyes.”

    It must have been awful and awesome to witness God the Son in his zeal for the House of his Father.

    His eyes.

    Piercing.

    Thunderous.

    Magnificent.

    Victorious.

    On their way back to Bethany, Matthew looked up and saw the fig tree in the distance had withered. He reached out and touched his rabbi to tell him what he could see just on the horizon. Suddenly, Peter shouted, “The fig tree has withered completely!”

    Jesus stopped and in the twilight, as the sun set, his eyes were radiant.

    “Don’t be afraid to think – and then act! – out of the box. Ask, believing you have already received.”

    Radical? Yes. May we become more like him every day.

    Mark 11:11-25

  • the boy in the belly of the beast

    Mary was nervous, but Elizabeth was confident she had seen Jesus with John. She said she saw them running ahead of the caravan, exploring as usual, blazing a trail ahead of the rest of them. So, Mary swallowed her worry and her instincts, and she began preparing for the journey home. The boys always took care of each other; and John, though a bit strange, was responsible – he could be trusted to curb Jesus’ renegade impulses. At least, that’s what Mary whispered in prayer as she picked up the remaining items and stuffed them into the wrinkled, dusty travel bags purchased all those years ago. 

    And she kept praying as Joseph helped her up onto the aging donkey, as they joined the final stragglers of their family on the long trip home, even as she fell asleep at the end of that first day, distraught that they had caught up with the front of the caravan, and John was confused, and Jesus wasn’t there. 

    “No, Auntie, really I haven’t seen him since – when was it – since early this morning. He was standing on the road, watching the sunrise. I invited him to join me at the head of the group, but he said he had to stay behind. I thought he meant he would stay with you…”

    Mary wrestled nightmares in the lingering darkness. Joseph was asleep, but he had promised they would turn around at first light.

    She stared at the stars and begged for an angel. 

    In the morning, no messenger had come, and Mary was awake, unnoticed. She nudged Joseph gently, and stood, organizing her things. She left a note for Elizabeth, asking her to carry her belongings until they could return with Jesus. With Jesus. Mary refused to think of the terrors he might have seen during the night. She and Joseph hurried back onto the road toward Jerusalem. 

    The sun was barely peeking above the eastern horizon; still, her body burned with tension and dreadful anticipation of the destination a day’s journey ahead. Jesus could truly be anywhere.

    The rocks around her were as silent as her thoughts, resisting the “what if’s”. She set her eyes straight ahead, and Joseph led the donkey resolutely. After a few hours, he began to sing, and the desert sands held onto his voice, sustaining it against the empty winds. He sang until the city gates arose, an unholy mirage against the sky. 

    The sounds of animals and mobs drifted toward them, and Mary whispered fervently. She listened for her child’s voice. Indeed, almost a man, but still her little boy. Passing through the black iron gate, she glanced up and saw archers on the wall. She shuddered at the image. What could her boy do against this monster that held the temple hostage? How could he, so innocent, protect himself, without his parents, in a city built on blood? Oh God, where could he be?

    Three days spent stumbling, lost in the darkest crevices of the city. Crawling through alleys between the dens of the desperate. Mary held her breath against the stench; she kept her mouth closed to choke the fear down. She and Joseph grasped at each other those nights, in agony when they returned and collapsed in their rented room. But after three days…

    Whispers throughout the city. This news travels fast. A boy. A demonstration? A revelation? He sits in the temple, listening. His questions shake the very foundations of power. Tremors move through the ranks of the authorities. The masses gather, wide-eyed. 

    The beast writhes in the throes of birth pangs unbidden and most unwelcome.

    Luke 2:41-52

  • you can still be sad

    Sometimes things can get really bad. 

    I should know. I mean, I died. 

    Twice. 

    And you know, when I was reclining in my own waste and breathing my last (well…first last) breaths, I kept fighting the urge to cry. I pressed it down inside my stomach, held a fist against my belly, told my gut to be silent. I didn’t want to show it. I grinned so hard my teeth hurt. My sisters floated nearby, always floating, like ghosts of themselves. They didn’t want to show it either. Martha had this pinched smile when she spoke with me, and I didn’t realize until about two weeks in that she was trying not to inhale through her nose because…well, like I said… 

    That was when she told me she’d sent for Jesus. Even on that last (again…first last) day we were anticipating a miracle. 

    Mary sat beside my bed for hours. Hours and hours. She told stories, usually funny ones, and she worked at mending dresses, and she fed me, and we said nothing about my impending demise. 

    Here’s the thing: we all knew I was dying, and we hoped I would be healed, and we thought we had to bury the tears to hurry up the hope. To manifest, you know? Other people would visit too, and they kept saying, “Everything has a reason,” and, “Time heals all.” I nodded and tried to keep my escalating cough from diminishing the aura of their manic encouragement. I grinned harder. I gritted harder.

    At some point, I died. 

    Jesus showed up four days later, and the first thing I heard was him crying.

    I think it was his tears that brought me back.

    And that’s when it hit me. Like totally and fully in the face: you can still be sad. It’s okay to be deeply, deeply moved by the bad things. It’s normal to feel it churning in your gut, and you don’t have to clench your fist against the suck. 

    I realized this in my burial wrappings, hidden from the living in the darkness of my tomb. I stayed flat on my back, stunned. Well, to tell the truth, I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to. My body was still mostly dead, and I was trapped in something I imagined to be like the sleep paralysis that used to plague Martha when she was a kid. Come to think of it, I never got a chance to ask her what it was like. For me, anyway, being mostly dead was mostly horrible. I could feel the disintegration of most of my body, in a dull and disgusting sort of ache, but I couldn’t move or speak or open my eyes. 

    And yet, I could hear him crying, sprinkling the ground outside my tomb with living water. That’s what I mean when I say I think his tears brought me back. What I mean is, the thing revealed in his tears is what did it. His love. 

    And it wasn’t just his love for me. No, it was his Love, capital L, the Love that compelled him to later face death himself. It was his perpetual affirmation that true things are lovely, and ugly things are lies, and the Truth is Love, and death is a distortion. A lie. 

    But that doesn’t mean that it’s pretend. 

    No way. 

    Death is as real as it gets. 

    But it isn’t true. 

    Where was I? I was stone-still within the tomb, and then he stopped crying. Not like abruptly. He aimed his sorrow with the recognition that it mattered (because the lie is really persuasive, and it matters, and people need to get that) and then he said a few things that were true:

    Father. Thank you. I know.

    And finally, “Lazarus, come out!”

    A creeping, tingling sensation spread beneath my skin. I opened my eyes. I walked out. 

    Fast forward to yesterday.

    In the past year, I spent a lot of time trying to grit my teeth, but I spent even more time remembering his tears. A few things rocked my world. Martha also nearly died. She got better. A friend of mine refused to believe I had been raised at all. He refused my invitation into conversation. Our friendship shriveled. 

    Jesus died…I let my tears speak true. 

    And then yesterday. The men who gathered outside my home were strangers. They came toward evening, in the darker part of the day, and I couldn’t see their faces. I didn’t recognize their voices. Still, I knew. I’d heard the rumors of the chief priests’ schemes. So, before I opened the door, I brought Mary and Martha into the back room. I held them so tight. Man, I held them. And I felt their fingers, their cheeks, their shoulders in new ways. We shook with the reality of the lie that was about to smother us. 

    When I walked through the door into the hands of the men come to kill me, I said, “Father. Thank you. I know,” with tears streaming down my cheeks. 

    I told my sisters this right before I left. I said, “No matter what happens, we can trust Jesus. Bad things happen. This is about to be a bad thing. We trust Jesus will make it good. Death is real, but it isn’t true. Death is a lie that has been exposed. Remember Jesus. Remember his hands. 

    But… 

    …you can still be sad.”

    John 12:10

  • thru

    I remember the parched lips. Cracking over jagged teeth. Faces of the veritable vision of parasitic thirst. I remember moving slowly through the mob, trying to catch snippets of side conversations. I wanted to know what they thought of him. I moved sideways, eyes up front, ears everywhere else. I heard the frequent gasps of awe and affirmation. These were the early days, you know, and the people were starstruck. I remember the fame, of course, and at the time it’s what I thought mattered most. Since then, I’ve realized that the masses are easily impressed. Only a few truly sought him. And many more than that were soaked in jealous rage. 

    So, when I think back to that moment now, I think of the leaders bent on execution. They’d wormed their voices into the crowd long before it assembled, and there were already whispers of blasphemy before he even began talking. A particularly bold man (likely bribed) shouted, “Zealot!” as the buzz of conversation faded with the raised hand of the rabbi. 

    Jesus didn’t bat an eye. 

    He never did, by the way. Not then and not when they arrested him and not when they killed him. Although, he did wink all those times he walked through – through waves, weapons, walls – if that counts. 

    A few women shushed the heckler and stared him down until he stood and left. Everyone else settled into position, waiting for another word. The synagogue trembled in anticipation. And then it began to rumble. 

    He reads the prophet Isaiah…he reads of the Messiah…the year of the Lord’s favor…broken hearts mended! slaves released!

    The whispers came in symphony. Truly, it seemed the sound of hope. But Jesus. Ah, but Jesus: not content to settle for popularity, never satisfied with empty sacrifices, he kept going. I think he was sitting to begin with, but I remember him rising as he spoke of widows, famines, lepers, and foreigners. Yes, even of foreigners – those not of the family of Israel. He might have been able to get away with it in some other city, some urban melting pot, but he knew the hearts of his people, his home town. He knew what they couldn’t admit. He knew they needed to be exposed. As always, we discovered later he was right. The fire hurts, but it cleans. 

    Oh, but it hurts. And we usually flail against the pain, don’t we? I know I do. I usually try to drown the lifeguard. 

    I didn’t notice until it was too late, and then I pushed with urgency, but I was swept up in the mob. They were filled with savage passion, and they drove him out of town, like an enemy. Like someone who didn’t belong. The irony: they were convicted of abandoning the family, and they condemned him to be cast out. 

    I ran. I ran ahead, I knew where they were forcing him to go, and I thought I could create a diversion, maybe an obstacle. Nothing. Rocks, sand, and then the cliff. I stumbled just short of it and turned. The mob ascended like locusts in a frenzy. Somehow I could see him, at the front. They shoved him and he tripped, caught himself, kept going. They shrieked. They threw stones. Yet, he determined the pace. And he walked right up to me, to stand together on the edge. 

    Distant clouds coasted against the horizon behind us. A fatal fall loomed at our backs. The crowd chanted demonically. 

    Jesus took my hand. He smiled and gestured, follow me. 

    And we walked back down the hill, passing through their midst like an exodus of two through the desperate chaos of hell. 

    Luke 4:16-30 • Exodus 14:21-22 • John 20:19

  • bread, thrones, names

    So, the thing is, he was pretty hungry.

    He sat among stones in the same way he always would in the years to come: with his left leg swung underneath, his other knee aimed at the sky, his right elbow resting upon this, and his left hand planted in the dirt. His free hand would hang, ebbing and flowing with the rhythm of his words, and it would come to be recognized as the gesturing expression of his intentions. His disciples would learn to watch closely, to measure their emotions and expectations in response to that steady metronome. Like the fingers of a conductor, his too would direct the music of the moment. He communicated whimsy with an irregular beat, a shuffling wave of sorts; he guided his listeners toward conviction as he jabbed and slashed at the air. 

    Like the fingers of a magician, his too would work a subtle spell.

    And now, as he sat among stones, he let his hand pulse with silent, unmoved anticipation. His disciples would later recognize this gesture as the most telling of all: a storm was brewing.

    He could see it from a long way off; he could watch this invisible force approaching as attentively as he watched the tangible pebbles and clouds merge on the horizon. Again, with the magic stuff, I suppose. A sixth sense. So, when the devil materialized with the sound of a grenade and a bloodied lamb in its arms, Jesus didn’t flinch.

    “I thought I had you for sure,” said the apparition, and it tore a bite from the dead lamb’s upper shoulders and began chewing. “Dinner.”

    “It’s three in the afternoon,” said Jesus.

    The devil looked at him, chin dripping, and sneered. “Fine.”

    Throwing the lamb aside with a violent heave, the devil suddenly gagged, coughed, spat, and fell, in a single (painfully awkward) motion, into a heap not six inches from Jesus’ face. It uncoiled itself and hissed.

    “But aren’t you even a little bit hungry?”

    “I am,” Jesus admitted. “Not big on sloppy seconds though.”

    Another cough. A belch. “‘xcuse me. You were saying?”

    Jesus adjusted his position and sat cross-legged facing the intruder. He lifted his hands in invitation. “Be my guest. Share what you’ve come to say.”

    The devil squirmed.

    The two sat facing each other in the wilderness, each the epitome of the other’s opposite, a paradox in repose. Meandering winds swept dust in a silent dance around their bodies.

    And the devil shrugged in resignation. “Well, this is awkward. But, hey, let’s let the future figure out the drama. I’ll make this quick: You’re hungry, right? Lickity split you hit the stones with some of that Jesus juice (problem solved) then we take a quick walk, you test out a throne or two, badabing badaboom, all of a sudden we’re flying, okay?! I mean FLYing! and you’re like, ‘No way!’ and I’m like, ‘Gimme some love!’ and we’re, like, BFF’s, buddies, bros, no more bad blood. We’re good! Nobody gets hurt – I mean, c’mon, a cross, really? – and we all go home. Your name in lights! Jesus: Son of Man, Assistant to the Big Guy Downstairs. Whaddya say?”

    For a moment, Jesus didn’t say anything, and when he stretched out his hand, the devil seriously thought he was going to give in. But Jesus’ fingers weren’t lifted toward the stones. 

    In horror, the devil watched the body of the lamb begin to shine. Wool unfurled in white flames, and the charred ruins fell like scales. A humming vibration multiplied from within the creature once dead, now rising to its feet, legs twisting back into form, muscles shimmering. The ground beneath them rippled, a wave of life rumbling outward. And when the lamb opened its eyes, Jesus winked.

    “No deal,” he said.

    Luke 4:1-13 • Matthew 4:1-11