I did not know what moved within me then—
a wind, a light, a trembling in the soul—
when I looked on your face and saw more than a man,
and words not my own rose like fire:
“You are the Christ.”
Not title, not triumph, not crown—
but something vast, ancient, tender—
the marriage of heaven and earth
dwelling in your gaze.
The Word in flesh,
the Infinite in breath.
I had seen prophets and healers before,
but never one who carried
the pulse of God so humanly.
In your laughter I heard galaxies sing,
and in your tears, the pain of every child.
I saw what the heart knows before the mind can name:
that in you the Holy has remembered itself,
and the human has awakened to its glory.
You were what we all are,
only more awake—
the divine human made clear.
And when I said, “You are the Christ,”
it was my own soul answering itself,
the buried spark in me
calling out to the flame in you.
For the Christ is not yours alone—
you showed us what has always been ours:
that God walks barefoot through our dust,
that each of us is the breath of the Eternal
clothed in clay.
Now when I pray,
I do not look up,
but inward—
to where your light still stirs,
to where the divine and the human
are not two things,
but one.
And sometimes I whisper,
not in fear, but in wonder:
“You are the Christ — and Christ is being born in me.”
