I recorded this one night when I could not sleep - my thoughts on how I treat my relationship with God very formally, in a way which I would not with other people - such as my husband.
'Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.' Sometimes I imagine I am shouting like Bartimaeus. Absolutely yelling out to Jesus, above the crowd. But really I'm whispering. Why? Is it that I don't really want Him to hear? I don't believe that I need Him? Or maybe I don't think He will come. Or perhaps I'm afraid of what the crowd will think. Anyway, the end result is - He doesn't hear me. He walks on. The opportunity passes. He's gone. He was passing through - He has passed through. Will He come back again? Who knows. So here I am, still by the side of the road. Still blind. What happens next? What's the ending? Do I ever see? Will I ever meet Jesus? This feels uncomfortable - It's unresolved
I had a friend who was going through a difficult time, and every time we met up, it seemed to be that she would end up crying, and I would end up handing over the tissues. Sometimes at the end of oour conversation, she would apologise for crying all the time and for being a rubbish friend. I would try and tell her this was ridiculous - that she was my friend, and sometime that's what you do with friends - listen to them cry and hand out tissues. I do not meet with my friend so she can entertain me, that's not what it is about. I wonder whether that's what I am like with God; I feel that I ought to come and perform for Him, say the right things, all tied up in a neat bow. But maybe He expects me to hang it all out before Him, warts and all - and he doesn't care that I'm a hot mess, He just wants to be with me. This tied in to what I heard on Lectio 365 this morning. Yes, because God ’s your refuge, the High God your very own home, Evil ca...
There was an ugly silence coming from the kitchen. I could tell that Martha was upset, she usually ends up there when she is. But this was different. Today was the Passover sabbath. We should have been celebrating- a day of rest, with family and friends. We had been expecting Jesus. But earlier in the week, it had all gone wrong. Lazarus had come in the house to tell us he’d heard Jesus had been arrested, and he was going to find out more. When he came back, I could see that something was wrong, but I never anticipated this. ‘He’s dead’. ‘How? Why?’ ‘Crucified.’ I couldn’t bear to ask Lazarus any more - his face was grey and his face was working horribly. He disappeared out again and we didn’t see him at all the next day. Crucifixion was terrible. None of us ever wanted to see it, but since the victims died along major roads, it was impossible to miss. I think that was the point. The worst thing was how long they took to die - I remember seeing one man on the wa...
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