OH Father
God,
My God.
My heart is
broken this morning. Broken, cracked and split open. And if mine is how much
more yours? If I who love your people haphazardly, crookedly and conditionally,
if I love them and am moved by the lostness, how much more are You?
How much
more you must hurt when you see your little children, these little lambs,
devoured by wolves? How much more do you weep than me. Me, who sits here this
morning with tears streaming down my face?
Father, how
can I help? Please, please how can I help?
The pain,
the utter emptiness, that echoes in the voices and souls of a people led
astray, of a people deceived by the liar breaks my heart.
My heart is
breaking this morning. We, the Church, have acknowledged your power, but we do not ask you to
employ it. We ask for band aids when we need surgery. We ask for a sip when we
need an IV.
Oh, God.
This
seductive world pulls and draws and promises. And yet it robs, deceives and
strangles once it holds our hands. This world and the prince who commands the
air around it is swallowing up people whole.
And your people sit and judge and criticize and dismiss. We analyze and
theorize. We suggest and offer antidotes. But God, you call us to enter the
fray. To get dirty hands. To have calloused knees and muddy shoes and crusted
clothing. But we are far too concerned about remaining pristine in case you come.
We leave the man on the side of the road because we have duties to fulfill and
obligations to carry.
And they are
bleeding and wounded and we walk right on by—because those who are wounded
shout and yell. They try to hide their hurt and their pain and cover it with
loud bravado and blatant rebellion. They are hurting. Wounded. And we walk
right on by because we think they are just shouting to be heard.
Show me what
to do, Lord. Show me how to honestly, truly be the Good Samaritan. How to be
the one who does not walk right on by. Show me how to be the one who will stop
and carry your little lamb to the inn.
Please, my
God. My God. Please.
Amen and
amen
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