On the road
It was a hot and dusty day. Dry, empty.
We were going home. And to be
honest, we felt sick. Sick of false
hopes, sick of defeat, sick of trying to believe. But what really drove the spirit out of us were these
stories. These stories about angels who
had said he was alive, that the body was gone.
For goodness sake, sometimes the faith of others can pull you down. Their enthusiasm, their certainty. We couldn't see the point of it. Entertaining wish dreams only makes things
worse. We had had enough of trying to
believe in something, in someone who had only let us down. He had been powerless, he had been silent,
he had just stood there and let them do it to him. He had been everything we didn't want or expect. And so we were walking away. Just walking away from it all. No more rumours, no more expectations, just
quiet and rest. And then, who knows? Probably just trying to stay out of trouble
until our days were up. Sometimes it's
easier to have nothing to live for.
It's funny when I think about how
he turned up I can’t put my finger on it.
He just suddenly seemed to be there.
We didn't notice him, we didn't encourage him, we didn't ask him to come
and we didn't turn him away. He just
turned up along side us. It seems like
the moment we decided to walk away from him, he started to walk towards
us. I've found since that that is often
the way with him.
Well, we graciously let him
walk alongside us. Gave him a bit of
space. We thought he didn't know. We thought we were the ones who understood
what was going on. We thought we were
the ones who might be able to enlighten him.
But the truth was that we didn't know the half of it. We were telling him his own obituary without
realizing it. We were joining that elite
band of prophets, priests, kings, and disciples who never seem to understand
the full picture.
You know, I have always loved the
Scriptures. I've got to know them, the
story has become part of me, part of my story.
But until he pulled them together, until I listened to him explaining
what they were about, I never understood.
It's as if it is not enough to read them on your own, to view them
through your own agendas or expectations.
There was something about seeing the Scriptures in his presence that made
the whole thing come together. Suddenly
his suffering seemed like victory. His
humility and silence made him royal. His powerlessness seemed like control.
Because that's the thing. We let him join us on the road, we invited
him to our home-he didn't force himself on us, he didn't manipulate us. But you know, I think he was the one in
control the whole way along. We invited
him, but he came and went at his own will.
We only recognised him because he chose to reveal himself. He came when he wanted and he left just as
suddenly. We met him, and he was
gone. Just like that. What he had given us was for that moment,
and it was enough for that moment, but even so...
Part of me wishes I could have tied
him down, a piece of me wants to know when I am going to meet him again on the
road. But with him there is always a
hungering for more, a seeking after more.
To find him is to keep looking for him.
And to keep looking for him is to find him. Because to really see Jesus on the road is never to have had
one's fill of desiring him.
Every time I eat the bread my heart
burns like it did on that day. I
remember dusty defeat, I remember how God played with me, how he opened my
eyes, how he came and he went. And I
remember the “false” hope that once made me want to curl up and die, and how he
turned it to life.