I met Jesus in the Gospels.
I met Jesus through His faithful witnesses, who shared,
wrote down, passed down, translated, taught, and lived.
(Like Mary) I have sung His praises and treasured Him in
silence.
(Like Martha) I have been told to not be distracted but to
listen.
(Like the prostitute) I have been told that the shameful
things are known and they are forgiven.
(Like Jairus’ daughter) I have been brought from death to
life.
I have questioned His sanity. I have run in fear. I have
reached out with the smallest of faiths. I have seen miracles. I have felt joy
and grief intertwined as perfume mixes with tears knowing the weight of my sin
and His gift of life. I have watched His death from a distance of two thousand
years and countless kilometres but it has dug at my heart as one who was there.
He is my Lord, my Saviour, my brother, the beginning and the end, the Creator,
everlasting God. He has my name. He has always had my name. He always will.
Why do I keep reading the Gospels? To know my Saviour and to
know how He sees me, loves me, keeps me. That is where I met Him. It is where I
meet Him, still.
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