The power of birth is not in the one that is born, vulnerable, squalling,
Having no hope or despair, just discomfort, and primitive fear.
They are refugees, torn from their homes and given freedom to…
When before they had freedom from… A terrifying trade.
It is in the moment of birth that power blooms. That modulation that drags all
To a new cord, a theme, an improvisation invited by this shift in freedom.
Each experience in our living mimics the original, offering choices from the womb
Of what was, into the world of what can be. A terrifying shift.
But all our births lead finally to mystery, shrouded in the dark of death. We know little
Of this transition. We fear it and deny anything beyond the womb of what is
Limited and confusing as it is, we know it. To consider anything but what we know
Is foolishness. It is to lose what little reason and sense we have here. A terrifying prospect.
But the empty tomb invites us to another birth. Invites us to see beyond the blindness
Of here and now’s limitation. Invites us to hear more than muffled cacophony. Invites Us to live into a new freedom, beyond survival’s threats. He is risen! But we are the Ones born! He knows us and calls us by name. He calls us home. Be not afraid!
The Lord is risen indeed! Hallujah!
