Dear Jesus, it is Holy Week and I am thankful you died on the cross for me.  But I have to say that I really do not want to go there myself.  In fact I have arranged my life carefully to lengthen the odds against coming near any crosses.   There are locked doors and security codes between me and the rabble.  I avoid Judas’ lips by keeping anyone like Judas out of my life.  I spend most of my time doing things that earn me the good opinion of others and a nice salary.  When all else fails, I make excuses and run away.  I am happy to let you do the heavy lifting while I follow at a distance, feeling sad for you and glad it is not me.

I realize that my allergy to crosses is a natural human response to pain.  You accepted it, not because you loved pain, but because you love us.  You love us like a mother tiger loves her young. And in return I fit you into my busy schedule when it is convenient for me.  I spend most of what you give me on myself.  I rarely shed a drop of psychic, let alone physical, blood for you.  I can talk the talk quite well for public consumption, but you know that the via dolorosa seldom sees my feet.

Lord, I feel you tugging on my life. But I cannot make myself love you more.  What I can do is pray. So I pray this:  light your flame in me, and by the Spirit’s power, do not let me smother it under a tepid blanket of moderation.

 

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