Nobody wants to be Christ. Not really.
Nobody wants to live in filth and eat with poor people and be hated and ridiculed and beaten down.
Nobody wants to be worshiped and dismissed and cursed and vulnerable and betrayed.
Nobody really wants to save anyone but themselves.
Nobody sees, nobody cares, nobody loves anything but themselves.
Do you know why? Because being Christ is no fun.
Because being Christ is hard work.
Because being Christ is not satisfying.
It doesn’t make me feel special. It doesn’t make me feel powerful or safe.
All it does is make me hurt.
I hurt because I see the complete lostness of this bloodied smear of a rock that hurtles through space with a deep sense of abandonment.
Like a late-term stillborn…it is a grotesque image of what could have been.
I hurt for each soul…birthed unto tears, they live and die unto tears.
I hurt for the beauty they all possess, the love they hunger for, the flawed nature that savagely tears them apart even as they coddle it, kissing it, trying desperately to contain the evil for one more day…
one more day I will be good, one more day I will be good…
I hurt for their attempts to make a messiah for themselves. From the splintered attributes of God still festering within them, they fashion a shallow image of glory from their insignificant understandings of the profound Majesty that moves and still the beatings of their hearts.
I hurt for the wicked. I hurt for the abused. I hurt for the lonely and cast-down and the respected, the kind and the talented and hushed, the fool and the youth and the wise and forgotten, the murderers and the religious and the beautiful.
I hurt for them and spit at them and love and hate them and do so because I am them.
I am them.
Christ was us…and was not us…and lived and died perfect.
And in perfection He hurt.
He cried. He raged. He fed. He bled. He slept. He tired. He loved.
In perfection.
And I don’t want to be Christ because it hurts too much.
Perfection hurts. Love hurts. Truth hurts. Good hurts. Right hurts.
And the pain never dulls.
And I am mortal.
And I am flesh.
And I am weak.
And I will create in me a heart of stone to replace this heart of flesh…to cope…to stop the pain…to live in delusion and ignorance of The One who formed and stirs the stars.
Who formed and stirs me.
Who breathed into the nostrils of The First Born, Adam.
Who breathes into the soul of The Stillborn, Humanity.
Who hasn’t given up.
Who won’t give up.
Who loves, and rages, and forgives, and hurts in perfection.
No one wants to be Christ.
Not really.
…
It hurts too much.
