Christ In My Eyes
I know it’s late, but I have to tell you this.
I met Jesus.
He was not a vision, not a dream, but actually before me. There were thousands of us in that place but all at once it was just him and I. He held out his hands, palms up, and I took them in mine. Without dropping my gaze, I very gently drove my thumbs into his wounds. My vision was quickly drowned as I began to cry. I felt my insides trembling, pebbles in a gale, but my body did not shake. I was entranced.
Somehow, as if by mere thought, I drew closer to him and rested my damp face against his neck. Reader, let me assure you, Jesus is not a stone god: he is so soft and warm, just like any other man, a real human being. I felt his pulse against my mouth; the melody of his heart beat past my lips, notes that thumped and spoke to me.
I drew back and studied him. I looked upon his beauty but I did not die! He was ablaze with glory, his face a map of compassion. His love is not sickly or pathetic in its devotion as some may believe. His love is boundless, scorching, supreme. It is absolutely devastating. He held me in his gaze, and he knew everything. My pretenses and sticky shadows were familiar to him, as were the good deeds done in secret, and the tiny individual vibration of every cell that makes up my body. I reached out and touched his throat. I withdrew my hand and frowned at my crimson fingers. I rubbed my thumb against my fingertips and began to wonder…
My blood is your blood.
I froze. Your blood is my blood? … My eyes fell shut in understanding, and I wept. Your blood is my blood, your sacrifice is my salvation. And then I was in his arms. His body against mine was solid, flesh and bone, a real person! My skin swelled in the heat of his fire. Oh Lord, you ate death for me! You are a real creature with a heart that beats, who can feel pain and joy.
In that moment I conceived that Christ is not just an idea, or an old prophet on a throne – he is a man, he is God, and he is my closest friend.