The Moment of Our Visitation

If you too had only recognized on this day the way to peace. But in fact it is hidden from your eyes. . . .you did not recognize the moment of your visitation.
Luke 19:42-44


Jesus is on the move. Watch with me as he approaches the edges, the margins, of Jerusalem. Here, from fields and villages, the crowds are gathering, pressing in to celebrate the man they see as their hero, their rescuer, their liberator. They roll out a royal coat-of-many-colors welcome. They gather and wave green palms from the field, extending the arms of their exultation. All of creation is being drawn in for this moment of visitation from the Holy One. Even the rocks are poised to break out of their hard silence, should Reality require them to do so.

And, below, the city of Jerusalem, in all of its feast day preparation, is stirred, And yet, not so awake as it may seem. For even as Jesus has open-heartedly received the praises of the people—especially the innocent and boisterous shouts of the children and child-like—he pauses. And grieves. On the threshold between village margins and city-center he laments. His tears spill the expansiveness of his heart as he cries,"If you too had only recognized on this day the way to peace. But in fact it is hidden from your eyes."

You see, those of us at the center—whether that is the center of commerce, religious life, social systems, or political power—we think we see the way to peace. We even may think we are the way to peace. We do not. And, we are not. Not yet.

We protect ourselves from seeing the way to peace. Because the way to peace is a journey of conscious surrender, a willing allowance to fall into the hands of those who, and that which, will hasten the disintegration of our most beloved illusions: the head's illusion, I know; the heart's illusion, I am separate;  the will's illusion, I am in control.

The way to peace is what Jesus embodies so devastatingly in Holy Week.

And many of us protect ourselves from seeing because we are not also deaf. With the disciples we have heard Jesus say, "Whoever serves me, must follow me, and my servant will be with me wherever I am."

Or, perhaps, we are among those who do see. Or, upon whom sight has been dawning. It is coming into view, this radical invitation to lose our lives as we have known them. Perhaps, like some in Jerusalem that day, our blindness is being healed. But now, in such brilliant light, we notice we are lame: we are not following the way to peace.

We do not follow because we're attached to a storyline, or theology, which has encouraged the abdication of our inherent royal agency; we see Jesus as a great Lone Ranger riding in on a white horse to rescue us, while we look on, glued to our prayer mats. Or we elect others to play that role for us. But Jesus invites us, each one, "Get up! Follow me. Follow the way to peace."

"Be healed," he invites, "you who are blind, deaf, and lame!"

See that you do not know and cannot know—until the appointed time. And accept that this is okay. Because Love is for you. This is faith.

Hear that Love is with you, as you are. Right here. Right now. You are not alone, you have never been alone, and you will never be alone. Even the rocks vibrate with a shared praise. All creation groans, as in the pangs of childbirth. This is love.

And now, feel that Love is within you, divine inspiration empowering you to stand up on your own two feet and take just the next step, and then the next, until you are leaping. It may take some practice. Carry your prayer mat with you. This is hope.

Faith, love, and hope—the Christ. This mystery, Christ in you: this is the way to peace.

This is the moment of our visitation, Soul friends. May we seek the grace to see, to hear, and to follow. May we who are blind, deaf, and lame be healed.