Et in Iesum Christum (And in Jesus Christ)

Rain taps against the window.

A kettle hums.

Somewhere the news

mutters of conflict,

climate

and cost.

I reach the next line:

And in Jesus Christ.

The room grows still.

Not an idea now,

but a man.

A man with calloused hands and kind eyes.

A man who knew splinters, hunger, laughter.

Yeshua of Nazareth,

his very name meaning the Lord saves.

He comes not as Joshua with a sword,

but as Yeshua with open palms.

Not leading armies,

but walking with fishermen.

Not commanding from above,

but kneeling to wash feet.

He blesses the poor,

touches the untouchable,

speaks peace to storms and hearts alike.

He tells stories that turn power inside out,

that make heaven sound like a table

where everyone has a place.

I believe as a student of history,

he existed.

The sources whisper his name:

Mark, Q, memory retold.

A Galilean rabbi,

a Palestinian Jew under Roman skies,

speaking of the reign of God,

now and not yet,

as near as a neighbour,

as small as a seed.

But I believe also as a poet,

through awe and encounter.

Not by proof,

but by presence.

Sometimes I imagine his face,

olive skin, desert-dark eyes,

a voice shaped by wind and tenderness.

He looks nothing like the paintings,

but everything like love.

And sometimes, when I pray,

I feel the nearness of his kingdom,

a warmth like sunlight through closed eyelids,

a whisper that the world could be remade.

The air itself seems to wait,

as if still carrying his breath.

I believe because I have seen his footprints,

pressed not in ancient dust,

but in the sand of my own soul,

in the mercy of others,

in the courage of those who hope.

The tide comes in,

the prints fade,

and still I follow.

So I believe.

Not as assent,

but as allegiance.

I pledge pistis to this wild Messiah,

the penniless preacher from Nazareth.

He has called my name.

He is Rabbi, and I am a follower.

He is my compass,

my guide,

the litmus test of orthodoxy,

not a set of doctrines,

but a person.

My faith seeks fidelity,

my creed a path.

To walk in his steps,

to love as he loved,

to let his mercy be my measure,

and the kingdom my home.

Rev'd Jon Swales