And Now We Wait
Swatting mosquitos and waiting around the fire for the hope of the morning
So much of holy week happens outside. Yes, there are temples and upper room meals, but there are also gardens and hillsides, mountain tops and fires in courtyards. There are roosters crowing at dawn and palm branches waved wildly at a king riding an unbroken donkey.
Our church on the mountain is hosting a camp this holy week and it feels right swatting at mosquitos, waking with the dawn, sitting around campfires, and remembering the events that happened so long ago–a cross on a hill, a curtain ripped in two. God incarnate sacrificing all so that all who desire can be made right with Him.
"The flesh is weak," our Savior tells His friends, who in His hour of need, were unable to pry their eyelids open and succumbed to sleep instead of praying not once but three times. We're human. Our flesh is weak and that, in part, is the miracle of God in the flesh. He came. He ate. He wept. He slept. He laughed. He felt pain–both physically and the pain of feeling abandoned. "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" That final cry from the cross.
As I sit on this physical ground, thankful for a physical Savior, who sacrificed so much, I am grateful, humbled, not even able to fully understand all He went through. I plan to watch the sunrise over the mountain to feel the hope after the heavy of the night. We have sung hosanna and now we wait in the dark for the Son, the risen Savior, the hope of humanity.
