I want to bring Jesus home with me.
But I can’t.
I don’t know why I don’t bring him home with me after today, Sunday. When his love sits beside me and sings along. I feel his love, want his love, would devour his love in front of every other starving heart, displaying my selfish nature.
I want to bring Jesus home with me. I want to put him in my cart with my eggs, my bacon, my orange juice and milk, my daily requirements. I want him easy to replenish, or borrow from a neighbor should I need a quarter cup more.
I want to know him with certainty, with the same confidence and reliability and predictability that I know fatigue and the dark still hours before dawn.
But it wouldn’t seem right to toss him in with a cart of disposable goods, everyday items, and yet that is where he waits, in the mundane hours of life.
Everybody is selling Jesus. Miniature Jesus. Painted Jesus. Sticker Jesus. Calendar Jesus. Abbreviated Jesus. The easy Jesus. The purchased Jesus.
I want the real Jesus to be my friend.
I won’t listen to the men with tobacco stained teeth and whiskey dipped tongues who crowd around their sidewalk coliseums singing cat songs to the women of Washington heights, proclaiming to know you.
I will continue up the hill toward Fort Washington Collegiate Church, my sanctuary, where we first met and invite you home, to my table. Where you may rest awhile.
Someone hear knows you. Is able to speak to you. Even see you. Someone here knows you more than just in their heart. More than just a memory of a fragrant flower that gently softens the eyelids and parts tight lips into a grin. Yes someone knows you well.