Blood, Piss, and Bone

You want the clean version.

The one on the Christmas card.

Soft light. Combed lamb. A baby who never cried wrong.

That’s not who showed up.

God came out of a girl.

Came the way you came, water breaking down her legs, blood on the straw, a teenager screaming in a town that had no room for her. No midwife. No clean towel. Animals watching. The King of everything landing in the muck and the afterbirth and the cold.

That’s where He started.

The mess you’re too proud to look at.

And it ended worse.

They stripped Him.

Naked. Not the loincloth your paintings gave Him… naked, on purpose, because the whole point was shame. They nailed Him to a device Rome invented to make dying take days. A tool perfected on slaves and dogs and the men nobody would miss. Built to humiliate before it killed.

He hung there leaking. Piss running down a cross. Flies. His own people walking by spitting, the ones He came to pull out of the fire, laughing while He suffocated under His own weight.

He saved them anyway.

They still hate Him for it.

So do you, if you’re honest, every time He asks for something that costs you.

This is the month you decided pride was a virtue.

He had every right to it. Holiness. Glory. A throne older than time.

And He set it down. Climbed into the blood and the bone and the worst death men ever engineered, for the people mocking Him.

That’s not a candle.

That’s not a vibe.

That’s not “God loves everyone” stitched on a pillow so you never have to flinch.

It’s a body. Real meat. Real blood. A real scream.

You don’t get the resurrection without the gore.

You don’t get the clean Jesus.

He was never clean.

He was covered in us.

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