The first time, You chose those outcasts of society, the shepherds. While the world slept, they saw Your angels. They received the most astonishing news, and they ran to a place where, impossibly, they found You, in a place where You were not supposed to be.
But there You were, human flesh wrapped in rags and held by a quiet teenage girl. Those lucky laborers, smelling of fields and sheep, were among the first to stretch calloused hands to touch You. They were the first to run and tell the sleepy lost world, “He has come among us. He is here.”
The last time, You chose these women, the invisible and overlooked. While the world slept, they made their way to the tomb. They stole into the garden with their spices and their love and their grief, ready to sit with You. But they did not find You. Those rags that had wrapped You were impossibly empty. There, where You should have been, You were not.
An angel gave them, too, the most astonishing news. And then they turned and saw You. They were the first to fall at Your scarred risen feet and worship You. They were the first to run and tell the sleepy lost world, “He is not here. He is alive!”
You come like this to the quiet and still; to peasants awake in the night, watching the sky; to women who had finally felt seen, loved, and understood. You come to those who have failed You, who are tormented by grief and regret. You come to the terrified who wait in rooms behind locked doors. You come to the doubters and hold out Your pierced hands. You come even to the religious hypocrites, though they still deny You.
Like seed thrown out all over the world, You come and come. You never stop coming. You come to the hard hearts, to the shallow rocky hearts, to the hearts choked with weeds, to the hearts eager and willing. You come like bread broken and given again and again, feeding a multitude. You come like sight to the blind, like leper’s flesh made whole, like wooden limbs dancing in the street. You come walking on the waves of our stormy seas, calling us out of the boat and into the adventure.
You come to refugees huddled in tattered tents. You come to the weak and helpless waiting for hope. You come to the sick waiting for healing . You come to the angry, shouting to be heard. You come to the skeptics doubting it all. You come to the weary who don’t know if they can do another day.
You come and come, and oh, if only we would be the ones who would receive You. Break us open wide, Jesus. Let the cracks make us let the light in. Don’t give up on us. Don’t stop coming. Help us in our unbelief. Help us to see all the ways You come, and help us to welcome You. And make us a part of your coming. Fill us to overflowing and help us to take Your coming to the ends of the earth.