How disappointed He must have been. His followers arguing over who was greater. So he washed their feet. They had all been given the chance to serve Him, had failed the test.
My brain cries "Tell them! Tell them to wash Your feet!" But He forgave instead. Double-tongued promise breakers, fair-weather friends; they would leave Him at the cross, or sooner. They made promises that night; they made tracks the next day. While He was beaten, they beat feet.
In my life i have come to experience sorrow, yet nothing like His. Left to my illness, questions unanswered, holding the bag, out in the cold. Logic says, "Put up your fists." He says, "Fill up the basin." My head screams, "Bloody his nose!" He whispers, "Wash his feet." I protest, "She doesn't deserve it." Jesus answers, "You're right, and neither do you."
Amidst this garden of wildflowers, these stems of gentle strength, rooted in truth, my word-petals of praise amount to nothing but weeds in light of His sacrifice. The Author of all i see, the Creator of time itself made me but a footspan on eternity's trail.
Because of Him, of what He did, I live free from the compulsion of retribution. The pain of accumulated hurts sheds itself from my heart. And Love, a Love that never fails, offering the Life I had so often rejected, taken for granted, spurned in favor of temporal pleasure, wells up inside me, reminding me that Love is only Love if chosen. And Love never fails.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
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