Why does intimidation rise when you see them?
Why must you find a way to demean them?
It’s as if dreams offend you.
Almost like your inability to believe in more requires you to project your limitations onto them.
Why does their imagination enrage you?
Why does their perception have to align with yours?
I wonder if ideas themselves are the root of your anger.
Or better yet, a mirror displaying all the dreams that were once in you that you failed to explore.
To be humbled is such an uncomfortable feeling.
To know that you would cheer for the one minimizing you.
Grace has you making room at your table that they are willing to flip because it was not set with their cutlery.
Why does blood make you feel as though you don’t have the right to silence the noise of their fears?
Why does familiarity make you comfortable with humbling your dreams that are destined to become reality?
To be humbled by the one you love.
To be humbled by the one you admire.
We sit at the table and I look across and see your eyes.
You once saw me as the chosen one.
I got on my knees to wash your feet to convince you that I never thought I was better than you.
I wanted you to see that even I believed you were chosen just like me.
But as I lift my head to tell you, “All done.”
Little did I know, “to be humbled” had only just begun.
It was not enough for you to curse my name.
It was not enough to pray my blessings away.
You must give me the kiss of death and change my name to what this world calls me.
Rather than the new name I was given when I was chosen.
To be humbled.
To be kissed and called Rabbi.
To be humbled.
To be killed all because we had the same dreams.
The only difference was I was willing to believe I could actually achieve them.
To be humbled.
To die at the hands of the ones I was willing to die for.
