(part of the “Breathing Out” Lenten Series)

Scripture Text: Luke 19: 41-44

41As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it, 42saying, “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. 43Indeed, the days will come upon you, when your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. 44They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another; because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.”

I’ve come to this moment and this place. I understood what I was called to do.  It was what was needed. Everyone was so locked in, often misinformed, often following a way that was not good for them, a way that was pulling them away from God, away from each other.  Oh, they meant well.  They were trying to follow the laws, trying to believe in the way they had been taught, trying so hard to make the way for themselves. But what they missed was the God who was with them, who had always been with them.  What they missed was the God of Love. I so prayed to show them the God of Love.

I was called to show them a new way, a way that would allow them to see the beauty and the grace and the mercy that God had in store for them, a way that would show how much God loves them, how much God desires for them. There were times when I felt it happening. There were those times when the disciples followed me, timidly leaving their lives behind and hesitantly following in this new way. There was that afternoon on the side of the mountain when the excitement was palpable.  There were so many that day that seemed ready to follow a new path. There were so many that understood. There they were, talking and eating together and being the people of God.

There were times I did not expect that were so wonderful, so life-giving. There was the one that was healed that came back, that understood the mercy and the grace. There was the woman at the well that taught me that my mission was bigger that even I had thought, that God was calling me to the world.  I pray that her voice will always be heard. And there was Lazarus.  My friend, my confidante, the one who always supported me.  When he died, I grieved.  And when he was raised, it was such a celebration.  His resurrection was what I prayed everyone would understand.  Thank you, God, for that gift, for the rising and the life.

I hope I did everything I could. I pray that my time here was what was needed, that somehow the fruitfulness will sprout even after I am gone, that this new Way will be imprinted on your people and in your world. I pray that part of me, part of what I did, part of what I taught, and part of how much I loved them will remain. I pray that this will not all be for naught. I pray that they will continue the pathway I have tried to show them.

But, always, in the shadows, there seemed to be something pulling everyone away, convincing everyone that they had to put themselves first, that they had to fear others, that they had to preserve their way of life, that somehow the earthly kings were above You or that in some perversion of your Word, there was belief that you somehow had sanctioned what is being done in the world, that you had somehow blessed the warring and the madness and the hunger and the exclusion. I weep because they have forgotten who they are.  They have forgotten that they are your children, that they are made in your image, a reflection of your being and your Presence in the world. 

And so, in this moment before I enter the city, I weep.  I weep for you my children.  I weep that I will not have more time, that what I tried to impart to you may not have taken hold.  I weep at the thought that when I am gone, you will simply turn back to your own ways. I weep that God’s love and mercy and grace have eluded you. I weep for you, Jerusalem, that you might have become so inward-looking that you have missed the gracious dance that the Father offers each of you.

Dear Father, I weep these tears this day.  Thank you for the gift of these tears.  Thank you for not taking them away just yet because they are your tears.  This is your lament.  This is your city, your holiest of cities, the place of your presence, that has seemed to push away what you offer, that has seemed to push away your love.

I do not weep for me.  I know that I have done your work.  I know that you have called me to this time—just this time.  I know that there will be other children of yours that will carry your love, that will carry your message to the world.  I pray for their strength and their fortitude.  I pray that they will know how to love you like I do.  I pray that this Way of Christ will be theirs.

Go with me, dear Father.  Carry me into what is to come.  I am ready.  I do this for you.  I do this for your children.  I do this for your kingdom.  I pray for all that is to come.  I pray for the generations of your children that will follow in my name.  I pray that what I tried to do, what I hoped to do, what I prayed that I would do, was done.  Forgive them Lord.  Be with them Lord.  Let them know your love.  Let them be your sanctuary. Let them breathe out the ways of the world and breathe in all that You are.

¹Hear my prayer, O Lord; give ear to my supplications in your faithfulness; answer me in your righteousness. ²Do not enter into judgment with your servant, for no one living is righteous before you. ³For the enemy has pursued me, crushing my life to the ground, making me sit in darkness like those long dead. ⁴Therefore my spirit faints within me; my heart within me is appalled. ⁵I remember the days of old, I think about all your deeds, I meditate on the works of your hands. ⁶I stretch out my hands to you; my soul thirsts for you like a parched land. (Psalm 143)

Let your religion be less of a theory and more of a love affair. (G. K. Chesterton)

Grace and Peace,

Shelli