These are not the thoughts we run to embrace. Pain and suffering. This song, these words, brought me up short this week as Pandora played and I edited. I stopped immediately and let these words of Lauren Daigle’s song wash over me and soothe my soul. “Lay it down…Oh Lord, I lay it down.” How perfectly appropriate to sit in these thoughts of surrender this week as Jesus walked steadfastly, unwavering to his cross.

This favored Son, who could multiply fish and loaves to feed thousands, who could quiet the storm with a word, who could open the eyes of the blind with a touch, and who could bring life back to a child with a prayer, could have certainly walked away from unnecessary pain and suffering. But that is the problem, I think. The pain was necessary. It was the only reality, the only solution.

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I think many of you know I have been writing a book for the last 4 years. I began in January of the year 2020. You know that year. You know the year our world seemed to turn upside down and inside out. We were separated and isolated and our plans, so hopefully planned, were dashed to the ground while we waited and waited…

I sit at the same desk this morning I sat at then. The first three months of that year I faithfully started reading a chronological New Testament Bible, stepping into discovering Jesus anew. My neighbor Hannah and I had multiple engagements scheduled to share The Loving Father Project, songs from her album about God the Father's love interlaced with stories from my book Genesis. Of course, by the end of April, all gatherings had been canceled. Including all in-person services of the church my husband and I belonged to as members.

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I am waiting these days. But I am not sitting quietly, hands folded in my lap, feet firmly placed on the floor. It is tempting since my calendar appears to be relatively empty day after day after day – interrupted with prayer penciled in on Tuesdays, Mary Hall Freedom Village on Fridays, and church on Sundays. Perhaps that doesn't sound empty – but for me, it stretches out like a calm reflective sea. But it is an illusion.

Because the plumbers are here in Greenville in both bathrooms and the water is off and rumor has it they will return again next week when the replacement diverter for the 70-year-old plumbing arrives. The front yard is carpeted in their wheat straw and hopeful grass seeds from replacing piping for the gray water the week before. They did things differently in the 1950s out in the country. Old houses have old problems, and we mean to solve many of them in this quiet month of August.

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Six days before the Passover, Jesus, therefore, came to Bethany where Lazarus was…

John gives us everything we need to know in this introduction to the dinner. I imagine the invitation was engraved on heavy cream-colored stationary with a classic yet elegant script in gold. The date; six days before Passover. The next day they will be guiding the donkey through the streets of Jerusalem paved with cloaks and palm branches to the shouts of “Hosanna!” But tonight, it is a quiet affair in Bethany at the home of their friend Simon the leper (obviously it goes without saying he has been healed of his skin disease). There they all are, reclining at the table, a feast of celebration spread out before them. They have great reason to celebrate; Lazarus, once dead, is now very much alive!

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The closer we get to Jerusalem, the more we don’t like the stories. They don’t line up neat and clean into easy sweet little homilies. The stories Jesus tells are messy. The people we think easily fit through the door into heaven are turning and walking away. Those people we love to hate are having Jesus over for dinner. I had planned on sharing with you the wonderful story of Mary of Bethany today, but that will need to wait for next week. Because today an enthusiastic woman who really wants to get it right described humility as being equal with everyone else. So, instead, I have to tell this story of being completely unequal. Because that is who our God is.

If you are reading these stories leading up to our version of Easter, you may be here. Matthew, Mark, and Luke overlap the telling of these stories unfolding these final days as they walk closer and closer to their destination. Luke will tell us the story of stopping to dine with the tax collector Zacchaeus; Matthew will retell Jesus describing the kingdom of heaven and comparing it to the unfair payment of laborers in the field. Mark will tell us neither. Matthew and Mark will tell of James and John asking to sit on his left and on his right in his coming kingdom. They all three will tell of Jesus warning them of his coming death (and resurrection!). All three will tell of blind Bartimaeus receiving his sight – although Luke has him as they enter the city; Matthew and Mark as they leave. Their stories soon converge as they enter the gates of Jerusalem. Every story; every conversation will hold a heavier weight. We need to pay close attention.

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Let us sing the song of Zachariah. Zachariah, old and doubting, his tongue tied so he could not speak. You know this story, don’t you? It is as much a Christmas story as the coming babe in the manger. Read the whole first chapter of Luke, and there you find him, the first one to encounter Gabriel and his good news. His response? Zachariah didn’t just doubt – he challenged God’s own messenger.

He had known his share of heartbreak and disappointment. A priest of the line of Levi awaiting a long life to serve, yet the dice had never rolled his way. His wife, whom he loved, remained childless, their house silent of the laughter of child’s play. And once the miracle had appeared at his doorstep, he doubted God’s goodness, he questioned the angel’s message.

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It is December. Everyone is preparing for Bethlehem. Lights hung. Trees decorated. Carols in the air. But I am on the eastern shore of the Jordan. Waiting to go into Jerusalem.

This has been a long and slow journey traveling with Jesus. I started it in the new year before the great pestilence. I never imagined it would take as long to write his story as it did for him to live out the three years of his ministry.

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Burning persimmon red stretched across the horizon dividing midnight blue sea from sky. Morning had spoken; she was on her way. There would be no stopping her light. I turned to the right, the ocean waves breaking to my left, the sand cold against the soles of my feet. Ahead of me, where man is not allowed to build, sand dunes rolled far into the distance. One lone fishing pole stood silhouetted against the retreating night.

I was surprised as I got closer to find the fishing pole belonged to a woman and her young daughter. Sitting on a handwoven blanket, cozy in hooded jackets; socks with their Birkenstock sandals, the mother’s arms encircled her daughter as they waited for the rising of the sun.

“You have the best seat in the house,” I greeted her. “We do,” she agreed.

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