A year and a half ago I opened my worn Bible to the beginning of the Gospel of Matthew. Tonight I finished the last chapter of the Gospel of John.
My motive that fall in turning to the Gospels was one of hope with a touch of desperation—or maybe the other way around. In a lake of confusion and intense pain, I reached for a Jesus I could trust to pull me out of the waters and help me walk once again.
And in the pages of the four Gospels, I found him. This Jesus.
This Jesus who healed the ones who felt small. The ones who were blind, lame, bleeding, and sinful.
This Jesus who taught with such a passion and earnestness. With a desire for His listeners to learn and grow and live an abundant life (John 10:10). He didn’t shy from truth—He was truth. His words were not always easy to take or to live. He asked us to take up a cross, but He would be there to lead.
This Jesus who became friends with mere humans. Who loved them, ate with them, laughed with them, wept for them. Even though He was God and so infinitely above us in every way.
He was so real and so close.
When I struggled with the intangible, I found comfort that this was who God was. He came to earth as a human so we could see Him, hear Him, maybe reach for the hem of His garment…or be embraced by His loving arms. He understood our limits as humans but treated us with patience and compassion.
I was drawn to Him. How could anyone not be? This amazing Son of God with His strength, courage, mercy, wisdom. His attention and care for His people on earth as He lived among them stirred me. His life. His death. And His rising. All so very powerful. And true. Something certain and solid to hold onto.
This Jesus. My Jesus.