Flesh and Spirit

We cling to painted faces, golden frames hung in dusty cathedrals, as though divinity could be held in the corners of our vision. But He is not there— not in the picture books, not in the quiet safety of our small, wooden prayers. . The Christ we often hold tight is smooth, unbroken. An icon we polish, a memory we tame. But the nails still pierce— and His body bleeds still, splinters of the cross wedged deep into the world. . Throw away this fragile Jesus, the one who fits neatly into your Sunday thoughts. Burn the paper versions where the flesh is missing, where the Spirit is caged. . Let Him rise instead, raw and alive, both flame and ash, both wound and healer. . He is the hand that breaks bread and the hand that shatters the table. The eternal whisper and the shout that splits mountains. The Christ who weeps in alleys and dances in burning fields. Do you dare to see Him there? . This is the God who breathes fire and water, who is both lamb and lion, both silence and song. To worship Him is not to hold, but to be held, to break your grip and let His blood run into your veins. . Throw away the idols. Let the living Christ come— not soft, but real. Not still, but moving. Not distant, but here, flesh and Spirit, touching the ground we fall upon. . "He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation."—Colossians 1:15 © R Gordon Zyne