God puts on skin, walks into a house and sits down for a meal. A common scene. Food. Guests. Conversation.
In the middle of it all, a woman. She doesn’t belong. Isn’t wanted. But there she is, pouring ointment on his head.
The men are appalled. Objecting. Challenging.
He rises to her defense.
2000 years later, God puts on skin, a woman’s skin, and walks into a hospital. He sees another woman, terrified and ignored. He places his hand on her heavy belly and feels the silence of a child who no longer kicks. He groans, but once again, the men object.
“Go home,” they say. “You’re overacting.”
God in the skin of a woman raises his voice. “Do your job. Use your equipment. Listen for the heartbeat.”
The men are offended. We’re the doctors. You’re nothing.
But God in the skin of woman demands until a doctor pulls out his stethoscope, humbles himself, and finally sees the woman in distress. God in the skin of woman watches now as medicine is provided, labor begins, and healthy is child is born.
A young mother looks at a woman, thanks God for this gift, and cradles her new born son.
Every day, God puts on skin. Sometimes he wears the skin of a child. Sometimes, a man. Other times, a woman. Old. Young. Rich. Poor. God is present in simple human beings living in common places – touching and being touched, loving and being loved, interceding and encouraging – present with another.