Touch

For Damilare Babalola… I woke up empty today. Engulfed by my desires and seemingly insurmountable needs I have somehow lost sight of what it means to be alive. My struggle is endless. Each day drags me relentlessly to the house of my tormentor. With his steely gaze on my back he begins to flog me without flinching or remorse. But there is hope… Soon I will leave this job. Soon I will build my house. Soon I will become a source of joy and no longer the harbinger of sadness. Soon … because this morning I will touch the hem of His robe. I will place my withering fingers on the fringes of his shawl and I know I will be made whole. “And his disciples said unto him (brusquely, almost with sarcasm), thou seest the multitude thronging thee, and sayest thou, Who touched me?” – Mark 5:31 WHAT A QUESTION! You cannot ignore the audacity of such. Look at

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The Birth

It was an “implosion“. The One whom the ants celebrate imploded to become a peasant baby who, like every infant who has ever lived, had to learn to walk and talk. [It would have been so scary if his first words to Mary and Joseph were – “hey guys I was the one who parted the Red Sea” or “Mama! I know the number of grey hair on your head“] While the mountains and volcanoes gush sacred metaphors regaling this great king… While the stars dance in a frenzy, extolling his majesty and might… While poets wax poetic with words laced with delightful and decadent deliciousness… All we have is the witness of a simple manger in Bethlehem where the God of all flesh cradled his head. Jesus in a manger bears no semblance to Christ on the throne. He forfeited the privileges of God and thus risked going through life unrecognised. He (LEARNT), a word strange to one classed

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