Who Do You Say That I Am?

Have you ever met the kind of soul

who swears they know your inner whole?

Yet never paused to ask your name,

but tells your story all the same?

 

Their voice is loud, their words are sharp,

they play your life like strings on harp.

And strangers gather, nod along

believing tales that feel so wrong.

 

It hurts. It haunts. It leaves a scar,

to be misread for who you are.

And worse than lies that twist and bend

is watching who believes… your friend.

 

But then I saw a deeper thread

those same ones bowed their pious head.

They sit in pews, they praise and pray,

but leave unchanged, day after day.

 

They hear of Christ, of grace and truth,

of mercy stretching back to youth.

Of turning cheeks, of laying down

the need to judge, to steal a crown.

 

And yet… they choose a different way

to curse a name, then kneel and pray.

 

And oddly, I felt something rise

not rage, but tears behind my eyes.

For preachers worn from planting seeds

in hearts grown deaf to sacred creeds.

 

Isn’t it strange, how quick we bend

to whispers spoken by a friend

how fast we hold what hurts and harms,

but doubt the voice with healing arms?

 

We crown the cynic, shun the wise,

and wonder why the good man dies.

We trade the truth for hollow fame,

and glorify another’s shame.

 

The holy words have long foretold:

You’ll be reviled for being bold.

Rejoice when slander paints your face,

for heaven holds your rightful place.

 

Keep conscience clean, Saint Peter wrote,

so lies will sink beneath your boat.

And Paul declared: Do not repay;

do what is right, walk in that way.

 

And not just Christians, truth runs deep

in every place where wisdom speaks:

 

In Torah scroll and Qur’an’s page,

in Vedic hymns and Buddha’s sage.

The Stoics knew, the Sikhs agree

let speech be grace, let gossip flee.

 

But when the blade comes from your kin,

or lips that preach of love within?

That sting is rich. That grief runs wide.

It shakes the faith you hold inside.

 

Still...

we know better.

We say we do.

So why betray what's good and true?

 

I’ll own my part. I’ve felt the pull

of venting pain till rooms were full.

I’ve nodded, too, when others spoke,

and let my silence cloak the smoke.

 

But pain, though loud, is not a guide.

It cannot lead. It cannot hide.

And when it speaks, unchecked, untrue,

it doesn’t heal, it fractures you.

 

So here's the pause. The sacred stand.

The turning back. The outstretched hand.

 

Not just to prove you’ve read the scroll

but live its truth, and guard your soul.

 

Because in the end, the question stands,

not judged by crowds or lifted hands

but whispered soft through time’s long span:

 

Who do you say that I am?

 

That is the question we all must ask,

we each will answer as each day pass.

Not with the lips alone we move,

but with the lives that speak our truth.

 

We all must stand, must face the flame,

account for choices made in name

for love we gave, or left behind,

for hearts we healed, or silenced blind.

 

For every whisper, every vow,

each moment lived is counted now.

We all must give account and see

the weight of who we chose to be.

 

 

For no one walks this path untouched,

immune to wounds or trials that clutch.

No soul escapes the sacred ache,

the war within, the heart that breaks.

 

But grace still calls, through smoke and dust,

to rise, repent, reclaim what's just.

To answer not with fear or shame

but truth, and love, and His good name.