Closing the gate on her weeping face, I had to run inside, weep and take a shower – wash away the guilt. There’s a woman at the gate, begging for help. But I can’t help her. Won’t help her. It’s not altogether clear.
We are on the porch singing hymns, preparing for Good Friday. Meanwhile, they are crucifying Jesus while we ignore it.
Can’t stop thinking. What if it was me? If that was Fred on her back? Begging the one person she knows can help – a Christian woman sitting in her big house shopping online while her baby gets sicker and starves. But I can’t help. She’s a liar, they say. I know who’s the liar here.
Try and forget her face. There are millions more like her. You can’t help them all. But only one at the gate. I can’t understand her language, but I know what she’s asking.
Let’s get back to church, hymns, spiritual books, talking about Jesus. Woe to you scribes and Pharisees.
I’m a fraud and a liar, professing love of Jesus while ignoring his banging on the gate. It has to be grace. Radical, undeserved grace by which we are saved. I will cling to that grace with all that’s in me.