It’s the pilgrimage for the proud.
For those with halos screwed on too tight.
In every precipice that we slip down
And in all our detours into darkness
We are taken aback by our own depravity
Our worthiness in our unworthiness
You may start from the north
And I may from the south
But we both see the same star
We seek the same savior
Before I even saw it shining off in the distance, I was told it wasn’t really for me. I was told if I wanted to find it, I had to start where they were. I had to be one of them. I had to match them step for step. From on top of a peak, they peered down upon me. Asking to come, they said I could not; unless… I severed my scarlet letter. It would repulse the King, they said.
I refused and they called me a contradiction. I told them I tried and they said my faith was too small. Either way, that star was not speaking to me.
So I ran on alone.
Down back roads to Bethlehem, driven by nothing more than a hunger for hope in something I did not, do not, will not and cannot understand. I ran and I ran and I ran. Through thickets and thorns, over daisy dressed mountains, into towns of the gutter, I ran. Until the gravel turned to grass and stones became fertile, with my eye on the star and hand over my heart, I ran and I ran and I ran.
Down back roads to Bethlehem I found a burrow of new faces. Everything was so different there. Saints spoke of scripture in words I had never heard; yet their language felt so familiar.
Clothing me in a love I thought to be legendary, I was drawn in to the hearth of their fires. It was there that stories were swapped and songs were sung and laughs were loud and tears were sent trickling, as we uncovered each layer of the other. For a moment I thought I was already there.
Leaving I turned as I heard one say, “I’ll see you… I’ll see you at the star.”
Faster I flew down back roads to Bethlehem. With each place I met more living in love than not.
And shedding my shame came all the easier.
Soon enough the star hung not twenty yards away. Below it sat the saints of the burrow and the soldiers of the peak. All of them waving me to a spot they had saved.
And stories were swapped. Songs were sung. Laughs were loud. Tears were sent trickling and love, oh love, burned again.
Beneath the umbrella of the star, we experienced our own rescue. None of us deserved it. None of us could earn it. None of us could pay it back.
It just was.
Down back roads to Bethlehem, saints and soldiers and even runaways like me reached our redemption. Along fault lines of faith, regardless of the rules, we all found the prodigal’s father. We were made new and perfect. We were celebrated as sons and daughters. We were loved as we were.
And we rolled up our sleeves and traded tales of our bruises… denying the lie that we were ever really alone.