So he’s on his way up to Jerusalem for the last time; “resolutely determined” to get there, Saint Luke tells us. “Resolutely determined” to suffer, to die and redeem us in a sacrifice of Paschal love.
And as he walks up the rocky path to the Cross, he turns to his disciples and says two words: "Follow me." And then he teaches us how the following of Jesus to the Cross and to Heaven is more important than anything else, even our hurt feelings.
The Samaritans never much liked the disciples, and they didn’t like them still, having refused to let them stop in Samaria to rest from the long, dusty, tired road to Jerusalem.
And so they asked the Lord for just one little favor. “Just call down a little fire and brimstone to consume them.” That’s all we want Lord. Just a little bitty portion of sweet revenge.
Like when the guy cuts you off going 500 miles an hour in the breakdown lane.
I remember a number of years ago, driving to Newport on a Sunday afternoon to say Mass for a bunch of artists, coming across the Jamestown Bridge in bumper-to-bumper traffic. And as we were crawling across Jamestown in stop and go traffic at an average of 3.2 miles per hour, every once in a while, a car full of screaming kids would go racing down the breakdown lane, leaving us poor law abiding fools to crawl another fifteen feet in as many minutes. I wanted to call down fire, lotsa fire and brimstone to wreck my revenge.
Now, I must admit, Jesus loves me more than anybody else, because when I came to the end of the two-lane road, the Newport bridge in sight, there were all the cars that had whizzed past me in the breakdown lane, in a neat little line, waiting for the nice man with the blue lights on top of his car to write them a ticket, and then send them back down the side streets, to get to the end of the agonizing traffic jam. And probably the worst punishment was that they had to make that agonizing journey in the company of those screaming kids and the spouse who told them not to take the breakdown lane in the first place.
We really want revenge on those who offend us. I really want revenge on those who offend me, just like the disciples wanted to wipe out those stinking Samaritans. But Jesus usually does not grant our wish. Rather, he looks back at us and gives us that look. You know it, the one the nun used to give your in fifth grade. He rebukes us, and off we go, to Jerusalem and to the Cross.
For walking with him to the Cross is more important than anything, more important than even our comfort.
As I get older, I wonder whether there is anything more wonderful than a good night’s sleep. You know that feeling, when you wake up with two hours more sleep than you have the last four nights, and nothing aches, and your body just snuggles under the warm comforter in the cool room in utter peace. Not a worry in the world, just the comfort of that moment, as you lull back to sleep.
And that’s all we want Lord. Just a little rest. How bad can that be?
You’ve been working all day and the marrow in your bones is aching, but then your daughter-in-law calls you because the kids have been driving her crazy and she wants you to listen to her whine. And you do, trying weakly to smile into the phone and listen compassionately, without yawning audibly. All while your bones ache.
You’ve heard your son’s excuses for what must be a hundred times. Of all the reasons his life is not working out and how hard it is for him. And you want more than anything to shout at him “you think you have it bad! Have I ever told of you of how when I was your age…”. You know the rest of that story. But you bite your tongue, and you look at him with something that at least tries to be love, and you smile weakly.
Sometimes, all you want is a little rest, but the Lord urges you to get up and get on with it. Follow me, for foxes may have their dens and birds of the sky may have their nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to rest his head. No warm snuggly bed for you, right now, disciples. For comfort is nothing and the only rest that really matters is eternal rest in him, whom I follow, trying to catch my breath, as he runs up to Jerusalem and to his Cross.
For walking with him to the Cross is more important than everything, even more important than those whom I love.
Just a minute, Lord. My father just died. Let me go bury him, and then we can run up to Calvary together. I have to be there for him, Lord, because it’s one of the commandments, and especially because I love him so much, and most of all because he has loved me so much.
Just let me spend time with my friends and those who love me, Lord, instead of all those strangers.
Like all the guys in the middle of the traffic on Kelly Square with the cardboard signs which tell me that they are homeless and veterans and that my spare change would really help.
Like the guy I sat next to on the plane this week, who from Detroit to Boston described, in excruciating detail, each disappointment of his very, very very long life. All while I was strapped into my seat.
Or like the gal at work who has never met a rumor she could not spread and who regularly dramatizes the endless soap opera which is the life swirling around her.
Just let me spend my time with the ones who love me Lord, rather than this sometimes endless line of irksome strangers. Let me take care of those who take care of me.
But then he gives me that look again, and responds, rather sharply: ”Let the dead bury their dead. “Choose between earthly affections and the Kingdom of God, the shadow of love or love itself, and follow me,” he shouts as he runs up the hill to Jerusalem and to his Cross and expects me to follow.
“And never look back,” he shouts over his shoulder. “Never look back.” For such is the urgency of this journey we are on, running after him, on our way to Jerusalem, and to the Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ.
