“Ladies and Gentlemen!”
The ringmaster’s voice cuts through the chatter of a pre-show crowd. The tent glows with warm light, an exhilarating contrast to the frigid rain you’ve trudged through to make it here tonight.
In the sudden hush, the ringmaster’s voice falls to a conversational volume. “You’ve heard the stories,” he says.
All around you, nods puncture the room. Some murmur agreement.
“You know the name.”
More nods. More murmurs.
“But you haven’t seen with your own eyes.”
You dare a glance at the young woman next to you. Her brow is wrinkled in a half-formed question. She recognizes the ringmaster, though she is not sure how or why. The sight of her awakens memories of the time when you sat where she does now, trembling with impending glory, your bones aching with a longing you couldn’t begin to describe.
“It gives me great pleasure,” the ringmaster says, his voice rising in volume, “to introduce to you One who needs no introduction.” He grins, pauses, and says almost to himself, “But where would we be without a little show?”
You smile. Some in the audience laugh. The longing on their faces is apparent. Beside you, the young woman lets out a captured breath as her heel resumes its impatient bouncing.
“Indeed, how shall I introduce you?” the ringmaster cries.
“If I were to step off this stage right now, it would be enough.
He speaks for himself.
And if only you could see
—and hear—
you would know that he brought all things into being.
He is the image of the invisible,
the pattern of the create-able,
the first-born of all conceivable life,
with a character so immutable
that the stars bend their wishes to his will.
He existed before time
and space,
and by his power brought them both into being.
He is love, personified;
light, magnified;
energy, multiplied.
A thousand suns are but a drop on the scale of his glory.
He is in the slow breaking of the world into winter;
the easy rise
and fall
of a sleeping infant’s chest;
the heavy silence
of a tiger’s paw as it stalks unwitting prey.
Echoes of power and gentleness call forth his name.
Winter’s stoic fury withers
into delicate spring flowers.
A mouse runs
up the burned husk of an ancient redwood.
Storms ravage the seas,
yet for all their fury, unable
to halt the slow turn of earth.
In a constant of change, He does not.
He is the rock that never weathers,
the oak that never bends—
heavier than a thousand waterfalls,
yet gentler
than a single drop.
The ravages of time, war, and culture have not changed him.
Politics and bias do not sway him.
Neither whisper nor cajoling will persuade him.
He does not bargain,
nor is he subject to our will.
He is an anchor among waves of teaching;
our rock
in the winds of craftiness and deceitful scheming.
Science is His, and stories.
They are all His—His story.
History defends him, commends him, even
though men have failed, at times,
to see
how the whole of the human story
pivots
upon the coming of his glory
in resurrected power.”
The ringmaster bows with a flourish, gesturing for the crowd to continue. Though there is no prompt or script, they shout with one voice:
“And what shall we say in response?”
You hold back at first, not wanting to startle your guest. But the words burn in your bones until you are unable to resist.
“If He is all these things, yet for us, then who could possibly stand against? Could trouble? Hardship? Persecution? Famine? Nakedness? Danger? Sword? No!”
This last word resonates to the rafters. The audience is on their feet, and so are you.
“NO—in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us!
“And now neither death nor life;
angels nor demons;
present nor future; nor any powers—
not height, not depth;
nor anything else in all creation
will be able to separate us from His love.
FOR WE HAVE DIED, AND OUR LIVES ARE HIDDEN WITH CHRIST IN HIM!”
The crowd explodes into a storm of clapping and dancing as the ringmaster holds his arms open as if to absorb it all. You let loose your own victory cry, whooping with the best of them.
The young woman grabs your arm, pulling your ear to her lips. “I KNOW THE WORDS!” she says. “HOW DO I KNOW THE WORDS?”
The crowd takes a collective breath. In the sudden silence, anticipation crackles a film of candied sugar. The young woman’s grip loosens, leaving the question dangling as she leans toward the now-illumined curtain.
Though you are not watching, you know the exact moment the curtain opens.
The young woman spares you a wondrous glance. In her eyes you glimpse astonishment, awe, and an expanse of glory so deep and heavy that she feels she could either be flattened or float into the clouds.
“It’s Him,” she says, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s Him!”
“I know,” you say.
Together you laugh and cry in equal amounts as joy overflows like cool water on a summer’s day.
A note from the author:
Hey Fam! In some countries, we won’t be able to post these blogs social media. Be sure to subscribe to get these updates sent directly to your inbox!
Exciting New Opportunity: Want to get real-time text updates and prayer requests while I’m on the field? Just ask to be added to my WhatsApp distribution list! (You will need to download the app!)
