So you’re here.
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You’re supposed to be here. “Everywhere,” remember?
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So where are you then?
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Why do you show up in the bread and the wine (if you do), but not in the lives of people who sacrifice so much to do the kind of stuff you did? Who’ve done the good things, who’ve defended the vulnerable and gotten screwed for it? Who’ve not turned away from witnessing atrocious poverty and violence (the kinds of things you actually commanded of Israel)? Why don’t they get a healing touch? Why do they bear so much?
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I just don’t get it. Where the hell are you?
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I don’t know what to think of you any more.
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Who are you?
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The silent one?
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Silent in the face of so much.
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The one great word that was spoken? The Word made flesh?
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Jesus said that those who saw him had seen you. (I wish had seen him.) And he wasn’t silent much. When he was sleeping, I suppose, and when they accused him.
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You were silent in the garden that night, when he prayed. When he was being betrayed.
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He saw so much. And he didn’t stay silent about it. I’m trying not to either.
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I don’t know much, but I think he knew something about Love, and I’m trying to figure that out.
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I wish…
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I wish Love would speak more.
Leaning Out 