Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me. Revelation 3:20
I draw breath in and recount the details of my dream. I see the blurred faces that you see in dreams, how the details are sometimes furry edged and faded–lacking. People on a freeway, walking as if they were cars driving. Some run, others cut in front of others, hastily, changing lanes, nearly bumping each other, scowls on some faces, blank stares on others. And I wonder if all these people passing me on this highway, even know where they are going, I wonder if I do.
Jesus knocks, and I sometimes tell him I’m too busy. I’m on the freeway speeding along and I really don’t have time to stop right now, but if he’d like to come back later, I can try and carve out some time for him.
And then I realize, I am starving.
Lent this year, hit me in a way it never ever has, and I am still here trying to live it. Trying to live the daily sacrifices, to grow deeper in him and some days, I cannot get enough to eat. Peter, ( Yes that Simon Peter, the doubter, the denier) came to me one night in a dream and reminded me that the resurrection is for any who believe and that even the denier can be redeemed, after all, he ought to know.
And that dream is burned into my brain, white-hot images, of meat plunged into the boil, some sinking down and never coming back up, some resurfacing, and Peter there, on the ledge, fishing them out with hooks, this fisher of men, talking to me, explaining this bizarre scene as if I were one of the 12, as if we go way back.
“Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift each of you like wheat. But I have pleaded in prayer for you, Simon, that your faith should not fail. So when you have repented and turned to me again, strengthen your brothers.” Luke 22:31, 32
Like Peter, I deny and act in haste. I am stuffed with pride and reek of impatience and self righteousness. And I cling to this strange dream because of the hope it gives. If there is hope for one like him, surely, there is hope for even me.
I feel like I am always racing past, too busy too answer the call, when he knocks, when he whispers, I don’t want to miss it, and yet, I fear that I do. I wonder if that’s why he speaks to me at night, when I sleep, the only time I am still enough to really hear. There are so many distractions and days where I spin like a durvish.
All I want to do is live for him; To open the door, and invite him in, to share in His sacrifice, and for me to live Easter, live resurrected, every single day. He says, “Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” (Matthew 11:29) And I breath “yes!” YES!
I have hope because he prays for me. This resurrected son of man, prays for my faith and pushed stones out for the way so that I can get to him. He is humble where I am not, he is gentle where I am too rough and course. He smooths my dizzy brow and knocks gently, and today, today, I eat with him. Feasting on his words and his love that spills out abundant.
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