He knows it's Scary to be Us...

He knows it's scary to be us.  He put himself in our place.  Once upon a time he stooped, lowered, sacrificed , broke, and ripped open the veil to become one of us.  He knows it's scary.  He rearranged pebbles under foot.  He walked paths between great cities, great histories, great leaders, small towns, and small stories.  He walked these paths as sure as I write these words.  He looked at stars that he has known since their birth, and he recognized the light of a distant past, and yet, it was not so distant to him, and even more so, it was truly real.

He spoke.  He cried: lips salty with tears, knees bent, hands trembling, and thoughts racing.  He prayed:  desperate prayers, angry prayers, prayers of hope and compassion exhaled into the night.  Prayers of a madman.  Because he would have to be mad.  Anyone would have to be mad to die for all of us.  But what is this madness?

This madness is one that knows no bounds.  It burrows into the heart and soul of all humanity, and it lies in wait.  This madness grows and festers, and we squash it out.  We seal it in mason jars, lids screwed on tight, and throw it to the back of that dark cupboard below the kitchen sink.  Then we hope, at first, that it will grow into something madly beautiful while we ignore it and pursue the mundane activity of breathing for the sake of breathing.

So we return to the madness.  We return to this life believing that something beautiful is growing underneath the kitchen sink.  We return to this madness, but it is of a different breed.  We return to busy days, sunrise to sunset.  We return to the challenge of breathing for the sake of staying alive.  We return to a desk, a computer screen, and hours of work.  We count the seconds as they inch their way off the clock, dripping to the floor in a slow motion march to the end of another day.  We never write our own story.  We read the page, and flip to the next page when we are told to do so.

Place problems here.

Walk this way.

Don't mind her.

Don't mind him.

We march onward.

And the madness becomes real.  It becomes intoxicating.  It draws us close and tangles itself with our bodies like nostalgia.  It comes in those quiet moments, and refuses to leave.  It moves under our skin, like veins warm with blood, pumping something like life.

See, like him, I have found myself on my knees.  I have found myself uttering prayers of hope and joy.  I have found myself shouting prayers of desperation, anger, and some form of compassion.  I have found myself simply speaking.  But see, I have not known the suffering of a King humbled, stripped bare and left to carry a cross for all nations.  I have not known the suffering of a father who asks his son to make a sacrifice, incomprehensible.   See, like the thieves who suffered with him I do not understand.  I know why I am here, and I know what I have done, and I have the same questions.  I have the same disbelief at sacrifice for the unknown.

Because some days I am afraid to die, and some days I am afraid to live.

But that is this madness of love that we have left in the mason jar, and he knows.  He knows that it sits in the cold and dark, dying.  He knows.  He knows its there.  He knows that we fear this madness.  So yes, he knows that it's scary to be us.  He knows because he lived to the full potential that we left in the cupboard.  The madness of love and sacrifice.  The madness of Grace.  The madness of the event.

See, we do not know what it's like to be him, and that is what scares us...