Love was enfleshed
as a curious rabbi
walking through Earth's dust,
carrying every answer
yet with questions on his lips,
choosing our voices
over his own certainty.
Who do you say that I am?
The turpentine question
that strips from the surface
everything borrowed,
leaving only what we've learned
in our own dark nights.
To the blind man crying out,
he could have simply healed—
instead: What do you want
me to do for you?
Love chose to listen
rather than impose—
it restored agency
over efficient mercy.
Do you want to get well?
The question that terrifies,
that asks if we're ready
to release familiar pain,
and enter the unknown
of our own healing.
Why are you weeping?
Whom are you seeking?
Even resurrection begins
with curiosity about our grief,
about what we've lost,
and who we hope to find
in the garden of our sorrow.
Why are you afraid?
Not accusation
but invitation
to name the deep waters
that threaten to drown us.
Even his dying posed a question:
Why have you forsaken me?
God asking God
the question we're afraid to voice.
This is how Love walks among us—
wanting to hear us more
than needing to be heard,
drawing from us what we
barely knew we carried,
teaching us that the deepest knowing
comes not from answers given
but from questions
that call us home.