We seem to find Jesus all over the place if we are looking.
Scripture is a unified story leading to Jesus.
He is on every page of the Bible.
We hear him on the breeze,
smell his fragrance in the flowers,
observe him in the birds and fishes and on beaches and prairies.
In the bright eyes of the curious child,
the soft touch of lovers,
the soaring notes of an orchestra in full flight,
there he is.
There he is disguised distressingly as a
beggar, an immigrant, a migrant worker in the vineyards,
huddled in a tent at curbside,
trembling with withdrawal in rehab.
I saw him in the LA gang leader,
the urine-soaked alcoholic,
the lonely eyes of the prisoner,
the dying COVID patient in ICU
whose loved ones could only look through glass barriers.
I saw him on the psych ward, eyes confused, terrified, depressed.
Under the earthquake rubble,
in the concentration camp,
the flood, the tsunami
there he resides.
At the wedding dance and the rave,
skipping rope, lifting a pint,
equally at home at wedding or funeral,
in the pub or the cathedral

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