Sometimes a person doesn’t want to keep company with a holy man.
Life is heavy enough without adding the weight of a personality you cannot read and an agenda that is crazy by most standards. Before I trail along behind Jesus, into Jerusalem, in the midst of one of the highest holy seasons of the year, with rumors of murder plots flying around my head, I’d like to ask him a question or two.
What kind of a messiah are you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed the politicians and activists trying to make their moves on you. You engage with them but then you don’t. One minute you’re avoiding crowds like an outlaw, and then you’re riding into town at the head of your own kingly procession.
Are you about death, or life? Since the day I joined your people, all I’ve heard about is life—abundant life, eternal life, the kingdom life. But you’ve said at least three times in the past week or two that when you get to Jerusalem, the authorities will kill you. Now it’s all about bearing our crosses, about persecution and death. You’re making me nervous.
When will we know that the job is done? You speak of the kingdom as already arrived, but your references are so often about the future—with its judgments and wedding feasts. Is there a plan at all? A course mapped out that we can see, to know where in the world we are? And will you give us a clue when the directions change?
Am I going crazy? I can’t not go with you—I mean, where else would I go? But some days I feel as if I'm as ignorant now as ever. My life is a wreck, thanks to you. But I can’t go back—no, I don’t really want to go back. But what do I have here? And where is here? And who are you?
It feels good to ask the questions. But why do I sense only silence in response?