Open Invitation

Open Invitation

(“He said to them, 'I have really looked forward to eating this Passover meal with you. I wanted to do this before I suffer.'” Luke 22:15)

I saw you outside the door. You approached it slowly, like you
were uncertain of the address. You looked up at the wall and
down upon your downloaded map and seemed assured this
was the right place.

I saw you outside the door. Your body swayed in toward the light,
then back toward the olive groves while your feet stayed planted secure.
The aromas were familiar, Passover since you were a toddler; roast lamb and
garlic, parsley, eggs and wine to remind you the God with a Name will have
no slaves.

I saw you outside the door. You made a wide arc toward the dark
between two closely planted olive trees. You could lean your back against one,
your feet against the other, and squint to your right, the door that beckoned:

inviting light and something so serious that the usual menu was incomplete.

I saw you between the trees. I whispered and early spring bore my breath
toward your face, “Come in with me, the Master asks us to celebrate tonight.”

You cast your eyes to the ground, and slowly, tracing my face, I know you
recognize me, and I am sure it is true.

“Yes, I was on my way in, friend. And, like you, I feel I have no right to enter.
You know my lusts, don't you?” A pause/selah. “I have also lied, you've heard.”
Another pause and selah. “You know how well I spoke and how poorly I acted,
I can see it in your eyes.” l o n g e r pause - - - s e l a h. And now the breath
you could see was ice inside of me. I shook over every betrayal known and yet
undiscovered.

“Yes, I know you know who I am. And I have been worse than you know. But,
I am here for Him, because of my sin. I am here to drink the wine I must drink,
or else die in my grief. I am here to drink the cup of bitterness,
the cup of my forgiveness.”

I touched your elbow, barely. Departure left you open to steady yourself or push
me away, stealthily leaving the open invitation. But, like a diesel in winter, you
warmed to the light framed by the door waiting open on the Eastern Wall for perhaps

only two or one more.

We sat, remember? I mentioned that, though I knew the forgiveness deeply, I still had not control
over the shivers every time I remembered how untrue I had been.

I hoped that you, new and without a history of deceit, could be clean and never shake except for
joy and laughter. And so it was, your mouth broad, your teeth wide and gleaming at
mercy's dance.

We have met there, each year since, begging the Savior would suffer no more
than He already had for us. We have watched, each year since, for others
who, shiver or static, still cannot quite make their way
through the door.