Stories of a god become man
Meditations on Jesus, empathy, and what it means to follow Him
Though I grew up in church every Wednesday, some Saturdays, anytime there was a revival, and twice on Sundays, my spirituality nowadays is ill-defined. I have, when pressed to the point of annoyance, said that I’m “heathen as a damn crow.” The truth is more complicated.
I’m not a fan of labels because tribalism is usually attached, too, but probably the closest label for me is scientific pantheism—the idea that the universe itself is divine. Sometimes, though, that dribbles into a wonder-filled animism, completely devoid of scientific rationale, that leaves me talking to our woodstove, summer breezes, thunderheads, oak trees, and fence lizards. Because if divinity glows and powers this universe, why wouldn’t it glow within all matter and beings within this universe, right?
I also regularly fail at finding a state of Zen—sprinkled with notes of Jedi philosophy—and, man, I do dig the idea of reincarnation, though probably not the way you’re thinking about it. The symbolism of gods from every culture fascinates me, each an archetype and placeholder for mysteries we once, and some we still, find ineffable. My spiritual life is eclectic, to say the least.
But this past week, in the middle of chaos and noise, something unexpected stirred in me. It was subtle as the cleaving of a seed, its tender greenness pushing quietly through soil after lying dormant for years. And I know it was planted long ago in Sunday school, back when I sat cross-legged on thin carpet, listening to stories about a man named Jesus who healed the broken, fed the hungry, rejected material wealth, and defied empire.
Don’t take this as a sermon or a challenge. This is not my return to institutional religion or rejection of the spiritual path I’ve walked since. See it as testimony—a recognition that love, empathy, and radical grace were always rooted deep within me. So while I commune with cottonmouths, meditate on cedar sap, and revel in the pagan currents coursing like creek water through my veins, Jesus does indeed live in my heart.
I heard stories of a god become man
Who did not come to rule over Earth,
But to save it through His death.
I heard stories of the King of all deities
Who left His celestial throne to suffer like the rest of us
A god become man who surrendered His power over time and matter,
Over atoms and light,
Who relinquished His command of the entire universe
So He could be born into the most precarious of circumstances on Earth.
I heard stories of a god who chose to begin His mortal life
As the son of an unwed, teenage mother
A terrified girl—no pedigree,
No money,
No influence,
No favor whatsoever.
None.
I heard stories of a god become man
Born as a child, not of royalty,
Not of privilege,
But into wretched poverty.
I heard stories of a god who chose to be born
A bastard in His community.
I heard stories of a god become man
Whose first breaths were full of hay dust and animal dander,
The first smell to reach His blessed nose
The dank, sharp, nauseating scent of dung
Permeating His blankets and His hair.
The first thing He smelled was shit.
I heard stories of a god become man
Whose newborn cries rose into the cold night,
Mingling with the grunts and bleats of creatures
Under bondage and oppression.
I heard stories of a god
Born to a people always under bondage and oppression.
I heard stories of a god become man
So He could feel every texture of mortal existence:
The warm bite of wine on His tongue,
The caress of sunlight on His skin,
The cool quench of water on a parched throat after long days of labor,
The laughter around a table crowded with family,
The comfort of shared stories and the ache of unspoken longing,
The sting of sweat in His eyes and the taste of dust in His mouth,
The intoxicating joy of celebration, the pulse of music moving His body,
The shiver of fear,
The warm embrace of a friend,
The hollow ache of loneliness,
The sting of rejection,
The suffocating weight of grief,
The never-ending stream of tears at the tomb of a beloved friend.
I heard stories of a god become man
Who forsook material possessions,
Who outright said to sell everything and give to the poor,
Who willingly experienced the hollowness of hunger and the jagged burn of thirst,
Who fiercely rejected the temptations of wealth and power,
Who supped with the whore and the homeless,
Who fed the starving and healed lost causes with the touch of His hand.
A god who told stories of outcasts showing more mercy than the righteous
Revealing that a true neighbor is anyone who needs your help,
No matter how different or despised they may be.
I heard stories of a god become man
Who drew lines in the sand and chose His side as that of the accused
A god who stood between the condemned and her condemners
As they raised stones to strike her down.
I heard stories of a god become man
Who wrecked a temple in the name of justice,
Who flipped tables and spat righteous wrath
On the vilest of predators preying on the poor and the hopeless.
I heard stories of a god become man
Who revealed His divinity not with trumpets and pageantry,
Not with thunder and awe,
But with the soft, sweet voice of humility.
I heard stories of a god become man
Who washed the feet of His followers.
I heard stories of a god become man
Who spoke of bringing the Kingdom of Heaven to Earth,
Who told the unwashed that God was within them, too—
That God was always within all of us,
And that the rules of gatekeepers, the rules of empire,
Would not—absolutely could not—ever alter this truth.
I heard stories of a god become man
Whose message was to treat the traveler, the immigrant, the stranger,
With exactly the same compassion as we treat those we know and love.
That the greatest commandment is to love your God,
And likewise—with the same fervor and zeal—love your neighbor as yourself.
I heard stories of a god become man
Who chose to experience His mortal death
In one of the most excruciating ways imaginable
A god who absolutely did not want to die.
A god who meditated on how to get out of it,
Who begged for His life,
Who pleaded with His all-powerful Father in heaven
To please find another way
Any way that was not this way.
A god who prayed for His own salvation
With such anxiety that crimson drops
Beaded on His forehead.
I heard stories of a god become man
Who, when soldiers came to seize Him,
Rebuked His own disciple for striking back,
Telling him to put away the sword.
A god who refused violence even as it rushed toward Him,
Surrendering Himself so that no one else would be harmed.
I heard stories of a god become man
Whose own people turned against Him,
Stirred into a frenzy by leaders terrified of losing power.
A god whose message of peace, generosity, and love
Was deemed so dangerous
That His life was counted worth less than that of a hardened criminal.
I heard stories of a god become man
Who was mocked as a king, not with reverence but with cruelty
A ragged robe thrown across His torn back,
A crown of thorns jammed onto His head,
Spit and blood running down His face
As soldiers laughed and crowds screamed for His death.
I heard stories of a god become man
Who was stripped naked and nailed to wood,
Hoisted into the sky for all to see
A warning to anyone who might dare to live and love as He did.
A god who, in the midst of His agony
Sliced open with blood and water pouring from His broken body
Looked down at those who mocked Him
And whispered their forgiveness.
Empire and death thought they had won.
But I heard stories of a god become man
Who would not be silenced,
Even by His own death.
I heard stories of the impossible
The whisper of a gentle, defiant love
That would not stay buried,
Slipping past guards and sealed stones,
Showing the world that no decree of empire,
No machinery of violence,
Could ever snuff out the light He brought into the world.
I heard stories of a god become man
Who did all of this.
Good lord this hits home.