How jaded I become to the supernatural. What a ridiculous thing it is to tell the story of God and man with the same voice and breath I use to ask my husband what he wants for dinner. Oh, we are a species of frail spiritual constitution.
Yet if my mind could see a photograph of the exchange between father and son on the Mount of Olives, I would be able to see in frozen time the captured anguish. My eyes would sense the disturbance in the creation around him as the full realization fell on him of the coming days. Spiritual beings would be seen comforting him, mourning with him.
And we humans didn’t see any of this coming. This wasn’t at all how we ordered things to go, and we became shaken from our sleepy story.
Still now, I am unable to comprehend and absorb the weight of this story, from fragile beginnings to triumphant end, so I sometimes tell it with the inflection and reverence of a bored sixth grader. But when I can stop and visualize a photograph of Christ and I exchanging love, looks, intentions… I am moved to awe. I can see the bright beauty of both gift and giver in an extreme contrast. And when I picture a photograph of the people long ago waiting and watching for his coming, I wonder if they told their children the promise with beautiful anticipation around the fire at night, or hurriedly as they were cooking dinner or tending sheep. Thank God his faithfulness is not dependent on us.