Prologue

I believe
God is a poet
taking broken, mangled beauty—pieces of human existence—and giving them flesh, that the soul may see itself reflected.

Yes, God is a poet who long ago set the stage for an epic work even Homer can’t contest. He inhaled intention and exhaled existence and the lights are about to rise as step by step, word by word, stanza by stanza, God incarnates.

 One

In the beginning, God.
That’s how it all begins. Perfect paradise, uncovered bodies, reflecting the Maker’s delight. All in harmony.

 But a shadow is coming.

 A lingering question prickles their minds: What if? They answer. And so fruit brings forth fruit and a new feeling like the earth fallen away so the stomach is free falling. We call it shame; they call it fear. God calls their names, but they remain silent, covering their bodies, trying to blend in with a world they’ve destined for decay. They see their naked perfection and think it the flaw, so they try to disguise it as growth.

 But God steps in, God the Poet, and he incarnates. He takes the emotions and consequences they have yet to understand and puts flesh on it all, that they might understand its gravity. The problem is not their vulnerability—nor even their disobedience—but the price to redeem.

 With a brush dipped in blood, God paints the cost of their decision as the mangled lamb’s carcass spills life into newly cursed earth.

Two

Now several carcasses drain blood into the ground. Halves and halves of creatures, lined up, causeway to heaven. And the swirling of movement. He. Is here. A shadow of pure light gliding between death and promise. Not looking back towards eternity, or down towards the grisly facts, but forwards towards the man slumped in sleep and the seed not yet planted.

He passes through the causeway of no return in smoke and fire, binding himself in one-sided commitment ever after. A promise for hope and a future. And still, the man lies crumpled by unconsciousness. God the Poet enters into his human construct of covenant and reframes it: “Fulfillment will occur, and I will be the one to do it.”

 Three

Let my people go. The withered wood slips into the force of nature, breathing out rivulets of blood that swell and grow and grasp, straining their reach until the banks blush crimson.

 Let my people go. The very ground you stand on answers my command, the dirt on which you founded an empire will become the teeth of jackals and the wind brings with it a swarm of disease, biting stinging fury.

 Let my people go. The horses’ eyes roll back in bloodshot terror, an ocean of fear and foam spewing from nostrils and mouths until death stills them.

 Let my people go. The heavens implode with electric fire and crystalized destruction, leaving only barrenness.

 Let my people go. The light has gone out. They wail but cannot see to comfort. They have blocked out the Light.

Despite this darkness, God writes the poem of his people:
You are
Not
Abandoned.

And I have not given you up.
Let me show you
Let me
Incarnate.

 Four

Israel comes out of Egypt on a flood of exultation and rides the waves to the base of Sinai and the brink of ruin, saying, “Look how far we have come,” and when Moses comes back, they literally have a cow.

 Not a glorious start. But God is incarnating.

 Thou shalt not
Touch what is dead
Speak of the Lord in irreverent terms
Defame his presence or deeds
Desecrate that which he has given
Ignore
Deprecate
Turn to imitation.

And so, with precision and care and impeccable attention to detail, they do.

 Thou shalt
Keep yourselves separate
Be faithful in giving
And merciful in punishment
Know that I am one
Love with your heart
soul
mind and strength.

And so, with precision and care and impeccable attention to detail, they do not.

 And then they question, frustrated that he turns them over to their sin.

 But God the Poet, in the midst of their apathy, lifts broken shards up to the light to show just how dark they are.

 Five

The fire has burnt out, the cloud dissipates, and the people long for something visual, concrete, since the cow didn’t work out. So God says, “Here are two men, masters of craft and art and creation. Let’s build something.”

 Rich umber tones of acacia, planed smooth and oiled to a shine. Gold molding and golden rings, polished to glisten in the sacrificial light. The delicate almond blossom, thinly beaten and gently shaped. Cherubim, full of strength and light and power and worship.

 And finally, a veil of blue and purple and scarlet yarns and fine twined linen. It shall be made with cherubim skillfully worked into it. Woven beauty and majesty, a permanent reminder that what separates us from God is beauty—what he has and we have cast off.

 Some call it perfection, some holiness, this hanging void that separates us. But it boils down to what he is and we are not. Holy, perfect, good, righteous, just, beautiful.

And beauty stands between us.

 Six

The people want more.

 “Our cows are fat; our sheep are fat; even our children are fat. We want more. We are utterly humiliated that we should be so different. What a disgrace to us—and to you—for us to stick out like a sore thumb.”

 “But that is rather the point.”

 “No, no, don’t you see, El Elyon, God Most High, Creator of All, don’t you see you’re wrong?”

 “As you wish.”

But all along, God is incarnating. He produces a perfect specimen: tall, dark, handsome. The women titter, and army enrollment reaches an all-time high. “See, weren’t we right? How good this is.”

 The idol follows his people, bowing at the altar of superior ideas, saying, “Of course we didn’t kill Agag. The cows were fat; the sheep were fat; even the children were fat. It would have been such a shame.”

 The crown is passed to dirty hands and then filthy ones. Suddenly, the people are less keen. Something is missing. “We know what you ought to be like, your majesty, and you aren’t really living up to it.”

 And God sighs. “Ah, so you see. This isn’t what it’s supposed to look like
At all.”

 Seven

God the Poet breaks out some heavy-handed metaphors too obvious for even Israel to ignore.

Ribs to the floor, your back to me, a year and a month or so. Until they get the idea that this has been going on far too long. Which side are you on? Left—not right.
Do you see?

Take your food and bake it over actual, literal, crap. Find a pile of excrement. That’s your oven now.
Do you see?

Strip your clothes. Walk, sleep, preach naked. For three years.
Do you see?

Not Loved. Not My People. Do you know how it shatters to call that your name?
Do you see yet?

Do you see what I am incarnating
In all this noise?
No?
Then I will give you silence.

Eight

The Spirit breathes out intention and the girl breathes in life
Everlasting.

And with him comes a lengthy list of side effects. Voices like the sunrise speak joy, peace, goodwill into the blackest void. The untouchables touch, taste and see. And the learned learn much more. Incarnation.

They’ve been waiting for it, yes, they’ve spent hundreds of years in eager expectation. And look how terribly, pretentiously, they miss it. The point. Oh, they get the facts:

God in the flesh. They promptly choose infanticide. But it isn’t just incarnation of flesh. It is incarnation of word.

The Word became flesh
And dwelt among us
And we have seen His glory
The Word, the Thought, the Breath
The Expression.
Of God.
Flesh.

 Simeon sees it. The expression of the author, Salvation prepared in the sight of all people. A Light of revelation. And still, they miss it. God becomes flesh and they miss it in their search for flesh becoming god.

 Nine

Flashback to the garden
The lamb bleeding out
As God says, “This is the price.”

 Flashback to the temple
The lamb bleeding out
As God says, “This is the price.”

 Now the hill of the skull
The lamb bleeding out
As God says, “This is the price.”

 One
Last
Time.

Ten.

God the Poet waits for this, his masterpiece, like the great painters and sculptors creating a piece of inestimable beauty. God the Poet waits. And writes. And three days later, pens the most deserved exclamation mark known to man.

 God the Poet declares, “Let me put flesh to that so you can see what I mean.” And that flesh has scarred wrists, battered head, a hole in his side.

And that flesh is life
Everlasting.

 Break out the laurels the ribbons the trophies the medals. Because the game, the battle, the war is
Over.

 And God the Poet 
Smiles.

 Epilogue

I believe
God is a Poet
Writing always the same refrain:

 “And the Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us
and we have seen his glory.”