I wrote the following for my Anglican Colloquium course that asked us to define the Gospel in 250 words. I don’t know where it came from, but a version of this has been tinkering in my head all semester.
The Gospel is a dirty window through which I see the Godman, Jesus. It feeds, it nourishes, but, maddeningly, it never satisfies. I can hear the Christ say to love my neighbor, eat the bread of life, and to make friends with dirty money. I think I see miracles of keeping the wine going, feeding the thousands, and the healing of many, so many, cripples, but I can never quite make it out through the flaxen, grimy window. I want to know more. I want to talk to him. He says something about lilies and birds and God’s love for us. The Godman says to keep my wick trimmed and burning. What wick? Why burn it?
Why can’t I see more?! I try to clean it for a clearer picture, but the window remains unchanged. I know what’s going to happen. I don’t need to see it again. I need details. I need more than words. But the Godman snaps and throws the tables in the place most holy. It practically signed his death warrant. I know of the sacrifice and the benediction: “Forgive them for they know not.” Through his loved ones I feel and see the hope of the resurrection. I beg the window for more, but it just begins the story again. Perhaps, one day, if I try hard enough or look hard enough or live into the resurrection hard enough, I’ll see more. At my end, I will be able to go through that window.