Jesus has just discovered his mission in life..

 

He has decided not only to be involved;

but also to take a lead in the movement.

 

He is determined to lead by personal example,

by embodying the ideals of the movement.  

He is determined to be loving, and to be just,

and to give himself freely in service of others.

 

‘The Spirit of God has gripped me,’ he says,

‘and has singled me out for a special task:

‘To share good news with the poor,

to free the prisoners,

to help the handicapped,

and to break the shackles of the oppressed.’

‘I must let the people know

that the day of God’s grace is upon us!’

 

For Jesus, this is not rhetoric; this is reality-

the reality he eats and drinks,

the reality he works for every day.

 

Every day

he makes time and space for the Spirit of God,

and he opens his soul to the Spirit of God;

his gut is ignited by the passion of God,

his bowels on fire with the compassion of God.

 

For him, empathy is not a superficial emotion,

but a deep gut-wrenching bowel-twisting sensation.

A visceral response to

the tears he sees, and the cries he hears,

And the suffering of others

that he feels, as if it were his very own.

He feels particularly anxious

about seeing desperately vulnerable people,

‘Sheep, without a shepherd,’

with nobody there to protect them.

And he feels especially angry

hearing about totally unscrupulous people,

‘Wolves, in sheep’s clothing’,

taking advantage of that vulnerability.

‘My grief is beyond healing,

my heart is sickened within me’.

‘Because of the plight of the daughter of my people,

from the length and the breadth of the land.’

‘For the wound

of the daughter of my people,

is my heart wounded.

I mourn, and dismay has taken hold of me.’

 

‘Can a woman forget

a baby she has borne?

Can a mother refuse to care for

the child at her breast?’

‘Perhaps.’ he says. ‘Even these may forget.’

‘But, I will never forget you.’

 

‘Come to me,’ he calls,

beseeching the crowds;

The broken men, the battered women,

the abused children.

 

‘Come to me, all you who are weary;

crushed by carrying the burden of living.

‘Come to me, and I will offer you a place of rest,

an oasis to restore your soul for the journey.’

 

‘Abide in me,’ he tells them, and I’ll abide with you.

Together we’ll be friends, you and I.

‘You can ask of me whatever you like,

and I’ll do it, because of my love for you.

 

‘I want you to know my joy in you,

and I want your joy in life to be full.’

 

And they do come, these lonely wanderers,

these broken, battered and bruised.

 

A man dripping with leprosy,

his body rank with running sores,

his soul hungry for belonging.

 

Jesus reaches out to enfold him,

to embrace him with love,

to heal him with touch.

 

A woman, bleeding for twelve years;

a dozen winters of rejection,

her self-respect haemorrhaging.

 

Reaching out one last time,

she finds Jesus and relief

in the same beautiful moment.

 

‘Go in peace,’ he tells them,

‘your faith has made you whole.’

 

They come, and they keep coming,

this troubled tribe of outcasts.

 

He tries to keep a lid on it, to keep it quiet.

 Cautions them to mute their enthusiasm;

lest acts of kindness become circus acts.

 

But the winds blow,

and the stories grow

and the crowds gather.

 

The all-consuming masses, pushing and shoving,

jostling like moths battering a single light.

 

They want this and they want that;

they want to see a miracle,

and they want to see more.

Jesus, at the centre of the chaos,

is giving all he has to give, and still it is not enough.

 

He often feels he is on a hiding to nothing.

He wants to help people,

but the more he does,

the more they want him to do.

         It is never ending.

But when he tells his disciples about it,

and, they try to help him,

they just make matters worse.

When some parents bring their children

to him, to ask him to bless them,

The disciples push them away,

to prevent them from pestering him.

 

Jesus is incensed, and says,

‘Hey. Let the little children come to me.’

 

He takes the eager children,

lifts them on to his lap, gives them a hug,

and blesses each of them, one by one.

 

Then, he turns to his disciples,

and says, ‘What are you doing?

This is what my work is all about!

The worst disease in the world is not leprosy –

it’s being unacknowledged, being unwanted!’  

 

But they take their toll,

these ravenous throngs.

 

Frustration clouds his compassion.

 

How to be pressed and yet patient;

how to be tired and yet care?

To dwell in the whirlwind,

in the midst of confusion and conflict, without losing his vision,

Jesus knows he needs a quiet centre.

 

And he finds that still place,

where he can be at peace with himself

In the eye of the cyclone,

face to face with God.

 

Jesus nurtures the hideout in the canyon of his heart,

harbouring in it, and lingering in its shelter.

 

It is a cave in the midst of the commotion,

a quiet retreat in the midst of the action.

 

Here he enters and listens;

and hears the stiil small Voice once again.

‘You are my Beloved.

In you I am well pleased.’

 

Fragrant, unconditional, limitless love,

running down, like thick olive oil,

into the recesses of his wounded soul.

 

Refreshing, renewing, reforming, redeeming grace.

 

Filling the void with the joy

of being loved, and being able to love.

 

A balm for frustration,

healing the deep hurt.

A wellspring of passion,

bubbling with compassion.

In it Jesus finds his strength, his stamina,

for the endless rounds

of giving and forgiving.

 

He learns the craft of caring,

the hard task of loving

friend and foe regardless.

 

 Jesus realises that it is important

for him to learn to care, himself, on his own,

regardless of whether anyone else does or not.

 

But he also recognises that caring, is essentially,

a communal, rather than individual, activity,

 and that, even he, simply can not do it alone.

 

So he invites others to join him on the job,

reviving the lost art of community care.   

 

He is painfully aware

of his friends’ strengths and weaknesses,

their gifts, and their frailties.

 

He knows

he can’t pin his hopes on them,

because, sooner or later, all of them,

will, one way or another, let him down.

 

But he also knows

that they can be good company,

and, in their own inept, but well-intended way,

will be a great vanguard of love and justice.

    

In sharing their company, Jesus feels stronger.

They reflect, and reaffirm, his personal struggle.

In watching their faltering, clumsy, stumbling,

often very funny, little attempts,

to advance their great cause,

Jesus gets a lot of encouragement,

        just to keep on going himself.

 

‘Together’, he tells them, wryly,

‘We can change the world’.

Change, he knows, is not so much in a strategy,

as it is in the ability of people, like them,

to convert every interruption

into an opportunity to care,

as constructively and productively,

as possible.

Thus the movement

deepens and widens;

the faltering ripple of hope

begins to extend outwards.