From: Ryan Knowles
When I lay sweating on the bathroom floor, the entire right side of my body racked with the exquisite pain of a tiny crystalized piece of calcium oxalate meandering in my kidney, I was terribly aware of my body. What about Isaiah as he starred in the first performance of the "Emperor's New Clothes," with a theatrical run of three years? Or the Psalmist and his broken body bathing in dust? And what of John, gnawing on grasshoppers chased with honey and chafing beneath his hair shirt? Is there anything on our bodies that doesn't speak?
All this rumination on bodies pushes me beyond the particulars of today's scriptures, which I trust you can read for yourselves if you are so inclined. It prods me towards the flesh, the body of a infant, a boy, a man, a human, whose appearing we celebrate during this season, and whose body was of the same stuff that could be stripped, broken, and chafed. There is nothing on his body that does not speak, as the needle of the Word drags across the grooves of the Flesh to produce the singular corporeal tonality of which we share. Listen for it.
I split my time between opening escape rooms, reading Slovenian philosophy, and sourcing the most interesting foodstuffs greater Boston has to offer. I live in Watertown with my wife Leah, daughter Aurelia, and pug Hermes Trismegistos in a great community house.