Jesus said, “I thirst.”
I love the way the trees sway in worship. The slight breeze setting their thin trunks in motion, branches joining the chorus. If i wasn’t sitting out here on the deck tonight, I wouldn’t notice. I wouldn’t see it. I have to pay attention. What is existence without seeing?
Why are humans the only living things that seem to find it so difficult to be what they’re meant to be? The trees don’t consider; they just are. The birds can’t help but sing. The clouds can’t help but produce rain. Rivers can’t help but flow into the ocean; the ocean can’t help but sustain its creatures, and its creatures can’t help but swim.
What can I really know, but what I see and feel and experience? What can I know, except for what you choose to give. And what can I give to you that you don’t already have?
Still, you say, “I thirst. Not for your goodness and sacrifice and holiness and works. I thirst for your love.”
It’s almost unfathomable, that God chooses to thirst for something, and even to suffer for it.
And so we, the billions, also thirst – for love.
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