A voice, calling through the darkness… for ages and ages it spoke, falling on the ears of both those who would listen and those who would hear.
Sometimes, the soil of the heart was soft. The voice was heard. But sometimes the ground was hard. The words landed and bounced. Words rang off into the darkness.
The voice spoke on. Consistently speaking with different mouthpieces:
In the whisper, not the storm.
From the bush that burned, and yet was not consumed.
From the bearded prophet and the shepherd king.
The voice sang with joy at times; it growled with anger at others. Quietly then loudly. Sweetly then vehemently.
Words of love. Words of power. Words of justice. Words of mercy. The voice spoke on.
But then it stopped. There were no more whispers. There were no more shouts. There was no more singing or yelling or coaxing. There was instead a vast silence with only the past words to remember.
For years that stretched into decades that stretched into centuries there was nothing. Only the memory of what once was. But even in the memory there was the echo of what might yet be.
There were the promises left hanging in that darkness. There were the statements left to be interpreted. There were the cherished words which were to be trusted rather than seen.
And then, like a mute who had stored up a thousand syllables behind his silent tongue came the voice again, erupting through the darkness. But this time the voice was embodied. It came not from the darkness but originating from a baby who would grow to be a man.
The Word had become flesh.
In the days past, long ago, God spoke to us in different times and in different ways. But no longer. Now He has spoken to us by His Son.
And this, His Son, is the embodiment of His message. He is the lasting testimony of God. He is the final Word.
And the Word is good.
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