How hard it is for us to conceive
That it was right there on the ground,
In an obscure corner of the Earth,
Within the flesh and blood of a man,
Hanging on a plank of wood shooting up from the dirt,
Audienced by a handful of fishermen and tentmakers,
That in the quiet of that man’s slowing heartbeat…
Something cosmic was happening.
And none of the fishermen knew that in that moment the world was being changed forever.
In the cross of Jesus, the astronomical met with the biological.
In the mundane, down here in the mud, God was fixing the universe.
The Christian story was, to my mind, so clearly imagined by God and not by man, because God, the mature storyteller, required no grand display in the climax of his narrative. No exploding stars, no shining lights from Heaven.
Almost no clues at all that what was being acted out in that Jewish town that afternoon had the undivided attention of every single angel and every single demon.
The finale of an ancient celestial battle between good and evil, all within one man’s body.
Power not exhibited, but exercised.
The power not to dazzle and amaze, but the power to save.
The power to change forever the very meaning of life and death,
By a single death and a single resurrection.