It is so indicative of humanity’s relationship with you, that when you set your eyes towards Jerusalem, the disciples meant for you to conquer but you meant to die. What a strange savior you are, dear Christ.
I ask today that you would give me a heart like yours. Where others seek to win, may I seek to be meek. Where others seek to please and gain human favor, may I seek humility and an identity that is not scared of being quiet and overlooked. Where others seek to acquire possessions and security, may I seek to give away more than- perhaps- might be deemed ‘responsible.’ Where others seek to take up a throne, may I see Jerusalem as the place where I must die unto myself, in the hope of being raised again with you.
It is hard, oh Lord, not to make your passion narrative an allegorical comment upon the lives we choose. We like to think that the story of your life and death can attach itself to our lives as a simple addition to the story we have already chosen for ourselves. But if your story is going to be our story, if we people wish to become your people, then the story of your incarnation must be first and foremost in our lives; it must define us before anything else is given the chance. We are not American Christians, we are Christians who dwell in America. We are not husbands and fathers, we are Christians who give themselves through love to children and a spouse. We are not pastors; we are not businessmen; we are not leaders and dealers and builders; we are a people who have been defined by the story of your love for creation, and are living out that story on the little corner of creation in which you have given us to dwell.
(I read that paragraph back to myself, oh Lord, and it sounds like a declaration. Help me make it a prayer. A prayer parenthesized with the petition of ‘thy kingdom come.’)
Turn my eyes with yours to Jerusalem this Monday, the start of this Holy Week. Turn my eyes to the object of my aspirations, but replace mine with yours.
Make us into your people, oh God. Thy kingdom come.