Ears

Ears

Jesus, who are you?

Child, who are you?

Me? Don’t you know?

I’m the one who’s been longing

All my life

To know you,

To hear your voice like they do,

To feel what they feel,

To be who they are.

I’m one of your witnesses,

I’m one who knows, believes, and understands

That you are He:

The I Am,

The Truth‒

Nameable,

Describable in so many ways,

Definable‒

But microdefinable?

Maybe not.

I’m the one standing on the solid Rock,

But is the experience of belief itself

A monolith?

I know this at the cellular level:

Jesus, you’re flesh and blood.

You’re the one Way‒

Such an amazing, unthinkably broken way‒

To be reconciled to God.

You are the God

Who crafted each strand

Of several billion spirals of DNA

And shaped them into clay

Filled with one breath.

But what I don’t know, Jesus‒

Let me muster up the nerve to ask‒

What I don’t know is,

How many languages do you speak?

Please tell me it isn’t just one.

I hope it is several billion.

I speak English.

I learned French.

I know a few words of Vietnamese.

But I was completely lost in Germany,

Because they looked at me and spoke freely,

Assuming because I looked just like them

That I’d understand their language.

Jesus, my whole life’s been Germany.

I chased after the peace they described,

But I never felt it the right way.

I craved the love they described,

But I never quite felt all the way loved,

Because I looked enough like them

But never was quite enough like them.

I begged for the Spirit they were so sure of

To fill me and take over

But it never did,

And I strained to muscle out

Plastic apples and waxy grapes

That tasted as awful as that sounds.

I tried to raise my hands in worship like they did,

and lift my voice,

and wear the face.

And my heart really did feel the swell of the harmonies,

And the lyrics really did pinprick my tear ducts at times,

And I really did feel myself

Standing in the center of your light and not just the spotlight.

But I never had ears to hear your voice in my own language.

But then‒

Oh, the mercy of it‒

I opened the Word

And, Jesus, I met you there.

Was it really the first time

I’d ever sat at your feet and listened?

What strikes me most

Is how you tailored your touch.

Every time it was a flawless fit,

Clothing completely the naked need

Of the heart, mind, soul, and body

Of each one who reached out to touch you.

Because you were the one

Who’d breathed life into the clay you’d formed,

You knew them at the cellular level.

Jesus, I think I hear you now,

Speaking my language in your Word‒

Splitting the hairs as you count them on my head,

Cutting in, so infinitely small, to fit between my soul and spirit,

Seeping into the marrow of my bones,

Stinging me there but soothing,

Smoothing the sharpness of insult into the bluntness of conviction.

Be opened, I hear you whisper.

I feel you cupping my face in your hands

As you bless me with my very own pair of ears.

Jesus, may I share my story?

I think a few words of mine may translate well

Into someone else’s language.

I want to speak Truth

So the world knows where to look for it.

I want to go unashamed and tell

And walk alongside and guide.

Oh, Jesus, help me serve you well.

But, Jesus, help me tread lightly

And lead me not to microdefine,

For I know

That to mimic someone else’s speech

Is deafening.

“He who has ears to hear, let him hear.” ‒Mark 4:9

“Be opened!” ‒Mark 7:34

‒erinrmsocha 5-15-2020