Who would tell us the rebuke was real?
When the rod came down, across our outstretched backs, who would tell us not to fight back?
When our cheeks are exposed to the blows, and we feel our faith shrink, not grow, who would tell us that it’s not teeth that we should show?
When our pride was lost in a fight and our hearts were far from contrite, who would tell us we we weren’t right?
How dare the man bring forth a concern!
How dare that boy make me feel scorned!
Who does he think he is?
Why does my neck feel so stiff?
When we lost our control in our rage, and digital platforms became a great stage, and when the warlord soul called “Me” acted like it was from a gorier age, and when the dark in our hearts made the light seem fake, who would dare say our wisdom wasn’t sage?
When we drew lines in the sand which were longer than God’s hand, and we decided it was OK to be more a lion than a lamb, who would dare say “you are the man?”
When we thought we were safe because we thought the debate we had won, and when we exalted in the “attaboys” and in the post-fight fun, who would dare say that it wasn’t Jesus’ race we had run?
Because sin wasn’t the race He had run.
When suffering becomes a taunt, and our wounds and scars aren’t ghosts that haunt but diamonds to flaunt, we will see our King.
When being right but feeling wrong reveals that truth doesn’t belong to the throngs, and when mobs don’t dictate through free-speech bombs, we will hear our King.
When guilt is known for what it is, and when I can only recognize what were my own sins, and when ostracization can never begin again, we will stand with our King.
How dare the man bring forth a concern!
How dare that boy make me feel scorned!
Who does he think he is?
Why does my neck feel so stiff?
Who would tell us the rebuke was real, or not to fight back, or that grace is better shown, or that we aren’t right, and our wisdom isn’t wise, that we were the men of guilt, or that we aren’t running behind the Savior? Who would tell us? Who could tell us?
Who is allowed by our rules? Aren’t we just a pack of selfish fools! Oh how the West has won, and oh how we’ve enjoyed the setting of the Son. Sin wasn’t the race Jesus had run, and His suffering wasn’t for our delicate feels and fun.
How dare we pretend to be like Him when we look nothing like Him. Yet… He is able to cleanse us from our sin, that we might no longer act like a pagan.
Washed, justified; cleansed, sanctified; purified, glorified in part now, but in full in the age to come. It’s to that age we run, we run, we must run because it’s there we meet our Lord and it’s there He bids us “Come.” It’s there we find, fully realized, our adoption as sons (and daughters) by our glorious, kindly Father. It’s there where every tear is wiped away, where bitter hearts cannot hold sway, where freedom reigns through Jesus Christ, where every citizen has eternal life. So we run to that age, that final stage, and it’s there we will remain and stay until the end of an eternal day which never comes.
And so we run.
Maranatha, Jesus, come!
