They drove across town to pick me up. Through the rainy darkness I could see her hand waving inside the car to let me know it was them. Limp with a cold, he sat in the passenger seat. We chatted and drove through the dinnertime dark, waiting at one red light after another, and, in scratchy voice, he asked questions—good questions and hard questions, the kind Jesus asks.
She served up supper out of the crockpot and poured the cranberry juice, and the smell of lime and cilantro, sweet potatoes and meat made my mouth water. And after a second helping of berry crumble and vanilla yogurt we sat around the fire, feet toasting on the hearth, and laughed and shared songs with memories—the toe-tapping southern joy of the Cotton Patch Gospel’s Jubilation and the beautiful faces and solemn holiness of Brahms’ Requiem—and it was all so full and free and my soul was filled up like my stomach had been. And as I glanced over and caught her laughing eyes I saw all over again: The Word became flesh, and since that time the Word has not stopped wearing flesh in the world.
We’re not just on holy ground, we are holy ground, Christ alive in us.
“I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.” (Gal 2:20)
“. . . we are members of his body. . . . the two will become one flesh. This is a profound mystery, but I am talking about Christ and the church.” (Eph 5:30-32)