Abraham brings his own son, Issac, to the top of the mountain to sacrifice him to the Lord. Before he is able to kill his own son, God speaks and stops Abraham.
I always read that story and believed the moral was only to have faith and be ready to sacrifice. It wasn't until a discussion with a friend that this viewpoint completely changed. During Abraham's time, child sacrifice was the foremost idolatry among his neighbors. Imagine living in a town where parents willingly gave up their children to gods that don't love them. Yewah was different. While God witnessed Abraham's faith, I believe the purpose was to bring forefront a radical new theology that the only human sacrifice to take place would be 14 generations in the future. It would be Jesus.
Until recently, I only had a heart for the old testament God. I believe this is because I only knew how to feel His love through good work. We read our Bibles, we sing our hymns, and we double the money and pass it on to the next person. It is our own version of taking Issac to the mountain. We say, "Yes Lord, I have donated to my church. I feel your love for me." His love never left, and your deeds bear no influence on your standing with Him. He is not moved by your money, your knowledge, or your time. He cares about you. Anything you DO is simply an extension of His will, not His love.
What if Jesus wants to love us as completely as a spouse? Song of Solomon was not a literal depiction of human love. It is an allegorical depiction of Christ's love for His bride(the church, and each of us as individual believers). As uncomfortable as that may sound, our perversion of bodily intimacy is not possible through Jesus. He is the perfection of romantic love. We have our failed relationships and we think, "God if only you would let me love again so I can have intimacy." When in reality, Jesus is jealous of our full devotion. So often in our services to God, we forget we are to be head over heels in love with Jesus Christ. For He provides the hiding place only rivaled by our earthly marriages, and even then His love surpasses. The intimacy is His, not ours. His tenderness will not lead us to heartbreak.
Below is a narrative poem I wrote about Jesus's love. I don't usually post these types of writing because they feel uncomfortable and vulnerable. I believe, however, so many of us close our hearts so tight, that we forget what it means to be open. You are not far. You are not dirty. You are beloved. Let Him in.
My eyes are crossing. I miss something...someone, or maybe just some feeling. My muscles radiate with aches and my mind is as foggy as morning. I feel folded as another nostalgia holds me hostage. I am covered in wounds from my war of attrition.
Sat collapsed, His hand is on my back in comforting adoration that things are gonna be ok. I don't know where it's coming from. I don't know if I will be ok. Yet, as I try to comprehend, I feel a spindly web wrap me over. It's shielding me from fear. The strands I am gripping supply me with hope, but my flesh is falling numb and my mouth stands agape waiting for words of understanding. They will not come. I see a light piercing the gaps in my cacoon, but no heat emanates from the glow. It does not alleviate my skin from its sickness. I know of the orange that is tempting my bones and lusting for my comfort, but I only feel frosted blue chilling my joints still. My hunger reaches my core as the knots in my stomach stab from all angles. It sentences each limb to loneliness, boxing my body until it's bruised. The shadows are not real. I am so alone. I am so cold. Muffled behind my head, I hear the harps of His contentment begging me to rest. He grasps my body, lifting my net into His lap, pulling away the lace that holds me together. I am so small in His arms. His lips contact each cheek, reminding me of His summer. My loneliness grows louder as He squeezes me closer. His pressure pushes the memories to the surface. This pressurizes my body until my skin stretches around me, yelling for release. It is so loud and I cannot hear. His grip tightens and the screams increase. I cry. The small blackened creatures release from the tips of my fingers and shoot from the ends of my toes, subsiding the swelling of my body until my frame is empty and sallow. He releases His constriction, looking at my worn face with a smile. He pulls me away from the brightness, laying me down in a field of flowers. He feeds me bread, soaking the acid that coats my throat. As I slowly slip into sleep, He speaks blessings around my body. I feel His words release into the air and lay on my skin, hugging my bones. I can feel the warmth. He declares me His beloved. I am nothing, but His.
As I regain awakeness, I praise His name. Jesus. He speaks as He always will, looking at my everything and surrounding me with possibility. I cry tears of joy as I cling to His feet and tear at His garment. He doesn't seem to mind. I can feel my muscles grow to size. He grabs me by my arms and pulls me up. My legs begin to walk like a newborn deer. Yet, there is no fear of the climb. He asks if I am ready.
"I don't want to surface."
"You will for a time, but you'll be back. Every time you look, you'll find me waiting to be alone with you."
With His last words, I began to cough. The air was growing thin. I realized I was no longer in His presence. I couldn't wait to be back.
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