Tag Archives: Jesus Christ

20: Crying Blood

20 blood Chelle MF

“The LORD said, “What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground.” Genesis 4:10 NIV

Abel’s innocent blood spilled by his brother Cain, so calls to God’s heart that it is as if it cries out to him from the ground. I believe this holy crying out happens every time an innocent life is taken, indeed every time any innocent is wronged. The wounds we suffer cry out to God, like echoes of sorrow, from small sighs on the wind from the tiniest hurts, to raging tornadoes from travesties of justice. The Lord hears them all, just as he hears our prayers. And despite what we may think at times, he also remembers them and acts upon them, and they have consequences for the perpetrator as well as for the victim; just as Cain has to suffer the curse of the ground, becoming a “restless wanderer.”

Guilt is also a restless wanderer, that follows us around for the rest of our lives, and there is only one cure, which is the blood price paid by Jesus on the cross. This truly sets us all free, for it redeems the sinner and heals the one sinned against, allowing them to forgive.

I find it interesting that the Lord says, “Listen!” and I think this tells us that we too ought to be able to hear those cries from the injustices done all around us, if we are willing to stop for a moment and be open to the sounds that rise from our lives, from the very earth on which we stand. This might be what we are doing when we ourselves come to the Lord in the prayer of examen or in confession, open to seeing and hearing our shadow selves, laying down our sin and hurt before him, both to forgive and be forgiven, via the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, love covering a multitude of sins.

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt

Photo from Morguefile.com

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194: Rolling Stone

194 hotblack MF rolling stone

Not by the gentle hand or tears of Mary, but by hands bronzed and timeless, the rock is rolled. This new wheeled invention is hard to grasp, the movement of heaven’s cogs purposeful and interlinked with plans hardwired into the very fabric of time. God’s well-oiled machinery releases the new wine, and out it flows, music of the spheres, trumpets muted by the world’s deafness nevertheless heralding the rebirth of the divine, with ten fingers and ten toes and the gaping wounds of having already, at so tender an age, made all well.

Mistaking the greater miracle for the gardener, we miss it, and stare, open-mouthed at heaviness made light, a strange emptiness, and notice only the absence of moss.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

 

193: Tomb

192 tomb SerendipityMuse MF

Laid out cold, frankincense rising. Your spirit soars downwards through the stone manger, and the fall is into the arms of an unseen victory. The echo of it rises and fills the empty chamber, music to heal the world when it is set free. For now, your swaddled form sleeps and far away you wake, embracing death as you did life, in all its fullness.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

192: Place of Skulls

192 golgotha edouardo MF

Three prongs of a wooden pitchfork await us then, after the long and bloody climb that births a new pilgrimage. Flesh already shredded, hanging limp, needing lifting. A mock rising, a thorny gehenna, human refuse disposed of along with God’s golden boy. No longer any separation between the holy of holies and the thieving murderers, the wheat and the tares burn together, and the incense that rises opens the gates of heaven and hell, and all is let loose, so that even the moon burns and the sun melts and the curtain is unseamed.

Everything falls apart here, and the unexpectedness of its totality catches the enemy unawares, open mouthed, jaw in another dimension. All history transfixed by this pivot of pained perfection, in which everything is held together, in this eternal, beautiful, brokenness.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

 

156: Stable

stable mf nagygl

The tremulous glow of a new and ancient holiness emanates from a tightly swaddled package, lain in animal fodder. His mother is dumbstruck by obedient love, of the same kind that will keep him one day bound to a painful end. For what use are words in the presence of God incarnate brought forth from your own body?

Instead he speaks for us, against the accusers and the poisoned gossips. Clear and bright the telling, silencing them as he will later silence the self-righteous scribes with carefully chosen words scratched in sand. The mortifying that they, that we, want to perform, holding the stones in our sweaty hands, angered at the shadow of a splinter caught in the corner of our vision, sticking out of the plank in our own eye.

No, there is no room for our words at the inn, and here in the stable beyond is where it will come to fruition, this saying yes to the indwelling of God’s love, as all of us must do if we are to follow the star, and end sitting empty and speechless in wonder on the straw.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015