The Long March

Lent is upon us.

The long march to death and destruction.

Not resurrection - not yet.

This is a march to Gethsemane, to sweating blood and crying tears.

A march to the lash - to a crown of thorns.

A march into a crowd that defines you by who they themselves are.

This is the long march into a crowd you want to love and help that waves palm branches on Sunday and cries "Give us Barabbas!" on Friday.

This is the march to the cross and God himself forsaking you.

When all goes black as the grave and all hope is lost.

Make no mistake - lent is a march into oblivion.

If you haven't read "Hinds Feet on High Places" by Hannah Hurnard, you might consider it.

This song from Rent of all things comes to mind:


http://youtu.be/IYhPO9-oLQk

Years ago I had a vision of a man trying to walk through the narrow door to heaven - only he had all this luggage (baggage). Suitcases in each hand and under each arm . . . and he couldn't get through the door unless he dropped the baggage.

He had to let go of his fears, his doubts, his grudges, his judgements - he had to lay it all down.

But once he dropped his baggage, the doorway narrowed - and he couldn't squeeze through in his suit and tie - off came the watch, the shoes, the coat and tie, the shirt, the pants . . . all of it . . . the posturing, posing, the manipulating and politicking . . . the only way through the doorway was to be utterly naked - vulnerable - without pretense or agenda.

And the door lead to the grave.

Its into utter darkness and forsaken-ness that we must go. We must lay ourselves down on the cold stone slab of our own ending - place our being into the hands of God and beg for our own destruction if that's what pleases Him.

And God will turn his back. Make no mistake about that. He will leave you there - cold and alone and consumed by your own doubts until the flame of your fear eats up all the oxygen in the tomb and withers and dies in on itself.

And then death will come.

And surrender.

And peace . . . finally . . .

And there we will lay - cold - alone - and yet . . . at peace - having discarded all our dogma - leaving no room for anything but the Christ who is laying cold and lifeless next to us.

Close your eyes . . . let it go . . . your unending has come . . .

what's that noise?