It began with a cry. It was a thin, weak, almost inaudible cry. But it echoed in the rafters of the Highest Temple, like a tiny drop of water echoes in a never-ending cavern. The whispery call came, and the heavens woke.
My Jesus spoke out of the black of the inky reaches of infinity where He makes His home. The single syllable from His tongue rocked the very atoms that form the molecules of the Milky Way. The “gods” of the Greeks and Aztecs trembled when they heard Him draw in breath. Him. My Jesus.
Then my Jesus let out a breath, scarcely a sigh, that stripped the heavens and laid bare their scaffoldings like flesh being pulled from bone. Hot, searing breath that had on its edge a metallic tang. Something deep inside every living creature shuddered at the scent. It was the smell of anger. My Jesus was angry.
Cherubim, ferocious and beautiful, fell to their knees before my Jesus, covering their four faces lest they should be exposed to the glaring majesty of His rage. With a thunderclap, my Jesus planted the soles of His bleeding, nail-scarred feet on their backs. But it was not them that my Jesus was angry with. To the contrary, He employed their services to exercise His fervor. Lifted off the streets of crystalline transparent gold by the breath of Elohim, they propelled Him through the heavenly realms, splitting the celestial thresholds asunder, then broke the sacred bonds and cut through the atmosphere of the earth, barely causing a ripple. But there was nothing covert about His mission. My Jesus was caught in a storm of contained, controlled, concentrated fury. He was coming for them, and they would know. Long before He arrived, they would know the pain of the strike that was coming.
They would know, but they could not stop it. Sinful. Violent. Hateful. They inhabited the earth blithely, not even bothering to kid themselves about the evil they perpetrated. They would pay, and they would pay dearly, and they would pay NOW.
He rained down lightening like flint sparks, and with each bolt a clap of thunder split the ozone-suffused air.
And that was just for show. His real vengeance would come with twice the beauty, and infinitely more finality. As he approached, the thin screams of His prey were drowned by His deep-chested growl, almost animalistic, and entirely carnivorous. This was not the pink, candy-coated Jesus they tried to show the diluted masses to weaken their resolve. This was a mighty ruler, one who bore blows from a Roman death whip, one who carried seventy pounds of crossed timber through the streets, dragging across puddles of His own blood. This was the Jesus that was torn bodily to shreds, tortured, mocked, starved, and dehydrated, and did not break. This was the leather-skinned, stone-handed Jesus that hewed cedar planks, whose eyes defied Pharisees, stopped angry mobs in their tracks, and turned the mighty Pontius Pilate into a waffling school girl.
Those same eyes locked on His targets, zeroed in, and went for the kill.
And they knew fear. They knew the nauseous clawing of certain agony and death. They could have run. They could have hidden, but in the end, the result would be the same.
The calloused fingers of Jesus, the crucified Jewish Carpenter, wrapped across their faces and ripped them in half.
Amid their cries of agony, a voice like a crash of thunder, a bursting dam, a falling redwood, a continental plate splitting apart ripped the air.
WHERE IS MY CHILD?
He didn’t wait for answers. With barely a flick of His fingers, His targets were incinerated, sent to the pit to await judgment. Breathing smoke and brimstone, my Jesus turned to the shredded, torn soul of the child He came to save tonight.
Cold obsidian eyes suddenly soft and compassionate, my Jesus began to wash the wounds on His beloved. With infinite dexterity, He soothed the deep lacerations and cleaned the debris from the cuts.
My Jesus gently wrapped the battered soul in His own robes. The cherubim were again used as transport. This time the pace was gentle. My Jesus would take no risk of further jarring His loved one. Cradling the broken form close, He slipped away to the peaceful place they used to share, the special spot that has been waiting for this moment.
Not the spot for a Warrior and His foe. A spot for a Father and His precious child.
That’s the plan. That’s the necessity. That’s the passion and the ruling force and the exception to the rule and the summation of judgment withheld. That’s sin exonerated and fragility defended. That’s power and praise and meekness and majesty. That’s the nature of love and the Author of relationship. That’s mighty salvation.
That’s My Jesus.
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