Tony Woodlief, as he does so often, speaks for me:
I suppose Christ is no more mine to give than He is yours, or even His own. Instead He watches over all creation, ignored by the urbane and the overly educated, espied by the weeping toddler, making fools of kings and princes of paupers, poured out for all and yet eluding many.
I pray the eyes of my sons, like Isaiah’s that morning, go to Him. Not to me. Not, please God, to me. Would I give them Christ, if I could? Will I, if I can?
Take this icon. Take this cross. Listen to these words. Bow beside me now, child, and quiet your spirit, and listen past the mumbled prayer, not with your ears but with the center of your soul. Look with the eye of your heart, not at me, not at me. I cannot give Him to you, son, but I can point you down this path, and perhaps you will tread farther than I, and as you go, don’t look back, not for anything, but press on past reason, past logic, past fear, past hurt, past the sins of your father and his fathers before him. I cannot give Him, child, but it is He Who gives Himself to you. As soon as you cry I want Jesus, He is there, and your small heart knows this, which is why you clutch a fragile piece of wood covered in paint, not because this is Christ but because you don’t know better than to clutch it, because you were crafted a physical being and not knowing better, you still believe you can hug Him to you. I pray to God you never lose this yearning, that instead it stays in you like a hunger, hurtling you along that path to a place your heart knows as Home.
I want Jesus, you said. May your prayers, child, come always back to this.
Amen this... then go read the whole thing.
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