Behold, He stands

He stands at the door. He knocks. If I open it, well, I'm eating dinner. He will come in and eat with me. He will see all I am. He will know me fully. That’s why no one eats dinner with anyone. If I open the door, though, I will know Him. If I invite Him into my place with all its waste and smell...well, He came here. He said I would know Him fully. His, all He has is mine if I just answer his knock and let Him in to eat with me. Then I will get to eat with Him. The trade is so much better for me.

My house is old and filled with pictures, framed memories of the lives of people I have hurt. The pictures on my walls are cracked reflecting all my relationships I've had in the past. All my masks and different costumes that I wear outside are tossed in the corner. When I eat, it’s just me. No dressing up. No masks. Me. But He is here. He wants to know me, and not just know me but know me fully. I don’t really know what He means. It scares me. I am not sure what it will look like, but He keeps knocking. He is knocking still. So persistant, but not pressing. I don’t feel rushed to answer it. He just called my name. I heard Him. The door opens by my hand. It’s time. I want to know Him.

As we sit down, I wonder: He came all the way to my home. He stood there and knocked for, I don’t know how long. He called out for me. I wouldn't do that for another person. People walking along the street, eyeing me as I am knocking and yelling for a strange person. How far did He have to come I wonder? If He came here for me, how far would He go for me? How far has He already gone?

He knows me. He sees it all. I think he knew before He came what I would be like...just another one. I'm wrong. He wants me to come with Him. There is a place in his Father's house waiting for me. It's time for me to know Him. He's going to show me how far He has come; we are going to walk back together. I can’t go in my clothes though. He says I need new clothes. He reaches into his bag and pulls out white clothes. He reaches to pull of my tattered shirt. I try to tell Him that it won’t come off; that I've worn this since I can remember; that I thought it was clean and fresh at one time, but then it started to smell terribly, and it turned a nasty color; that each time I tried to wash it, it would get worse; that I could never take it off which is why I sold all I had and even myself for costumes and masks. He insists on taking it off. It's impossible though. He doesn't seem worried about my opinions. No one ever was. His persistence has carried over from the knocking. It didn’t stop at the door, obviously. He wasn’t put off by the stench in the house or by me. He wasn’t shocked by my pictures. He is relentless.

He rips off one sleeve with such power I thought my arm had fallen off and my body had gone through my sand floor. The pain and rawness was almost unbearable. After I opened my eyes, His arm is the first thing I see and it is dark red with blood. My arm is off and there's all my blood, I think. But my arm is still there, but it is fresh and clean. Cleaner than when I was first born. But how-- He rips my other arm. Squinting through the pain, I see the same result. My arm is brand new, even newer than new. His other arm is now covered in blood, but I don’t think its mine anymore. He is bleeding, where I should be. He rips my chest and it tears down but gets stuck on my heart. It was like sticking a shovel into the ground and hitting a rock. Oh, the immense pain that came with each tug. He grabbed my shirt-skin with both hands on either side of my heart and pulled two sharp times. I couldn’t take it. The very core of me was being gutted and wrenched from me. My eyes gaze pleadingly into His, but I see that there is pain in His eyes deeper than mine. I realize that with each pull and tear, He has felt it more than me. He is taking most of the pain. There is an endurance in His eyes and I know that love endures all things. And with one final pull and twist He wrenches out my heart. I tried to scream. I wanted to scream. But the cry came from His lips and from the very depths of His eternal being. I knew my cry would have been shallow and insufficient for the pain. My eyes glance at His chest and it is soaked in blood. It should be mine. It’s too dark and rich, carrying such life in it. He continues to tear and rip off my old, worn clothes. Each tear reveals new born skin leaving a fragrance that is crisp my nose and lungs, stinging as I breathe in.

Then He takes all the rags and skin and with His bleeding hands, he puts it on Himself. He Himself carried my sorrows. I am weak. He holds out His hand and there's my heart. But it is alive and powerfully beating. It’s larger than before and almost jumping out of His hands as He places it in me. He looks at me and tells me it is done. The rags are gone and His clothes are stained with blood. He places the white clothes on me that I had seen before. As we walk out of the house, I don’t look back. I know Him in part. He is Jesus. His clothes are red with blood and mine are white and clean. As we talk, I suddenly fall, but He picks me up. Frantically, I check the clothes to see if they are stained. They are not. I know that if I should fall hundreds of times, they will always stay white because they are His. But I don’t wish to fall anymore. I want to talk with Him. I want to know Him. We are walking together and He will show me how far He has come. I have seen a little and know in part, but one day, I will know Him as He knows me: fully.

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This is eternal life, to know the true God, and the one whom You sent, Jesus Christ.