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As [Jesus] came near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, ‘If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. (Luke 19:41-42)
We come to
Jesus in the hour of our need, but to know him we must stand at his side in the
hour of his sorrow.
It helps to
see and hear the places and moments, the words and small movements through
which his heart is revealed. Watching closely, we hear what words cannot tell
and feel his soul, speaking to our own.
He sits on
the Mount of Olives, the ridge overlooking Jerusalem from the east. Shadows
deepen in Kidron, the valley below him, as the remainder of the day fades, the
towers of the city the last to savor the light.
His head
turns from one side to the other, savoring the city before him, right to left, north
to south and back again, his eyes embracing the thick, gray stones of the city
wall he knows will not stand the violent storms soon to come, in the brutal crush
of history.
He is silent.
No words. None are needed. His silence voices the wonder of who he is, what he
feels and what we most need to know.
Slowly, his
lips form words … seen as much as heard,
the whispered longing of a grieving heart. ‘If only … .
‘If only you knew
the things that make for peace.’
The words
hang in the air, echoing a love that is true, bearing the sadness of the times
and the bitterness to come. He has a death to die, and the city will see destruction
as empires clash, unleashing a river of tears of which his own are the foretaste.
How can I not
love a heart who loves like this, who looks over the city who will hate and
reject him and love it still, down to the last lost soul? If his is the heart
of God, then the victory over all that is hate is certain.
And there is
only one good thing to do. Stand with him, stand by him, as his eyes embrace
the city of his sorrow, our hearts softened to see as he sees and feel as he
feels, sharing his sorrow. Knowing, too, it is not only Jerusalem he surveys,
but the conflicts and burdens of our time and place, for we, too, do not know
the things that make for peace.
Perhaps we can
learn by standing by Jesus, watching him, as he loves the city which will destroy
him. Perhaps then we can feel and become the love that refuses to hate in the
face of rejection, the mercy that embraces the brokenness of our times without
rancor, seeking only to pour the oil of consolation on those whose struggles
are greater than our own.
It can be a small
thing that maybe isn’t small at all. Perhaps this is why Fr. Dennis appeared in
my prayer. As I watched Jesus surveying the city, I suddenly saw Fr. Dennis
there, standing beside the place Jesus sat.
An older
priest on Chicago’s south side, Fr. Dennis ferries Venezuelan immigrants to the
parish house where he lives to do their laundry, so they can avoid the
laundromats and ICE agents.
Who knew laundry could be one of the things that make for peace? Fr. Dennis figured it out, standing with Jesus in a place of his sorrow. Perhaps we can, too.
David L. Miller
