Today's passage is Matthew 23:29-39.
Jesus finishes his Woes to the Scribes and Pharisees, telling them they convict themselves of their sins by admitting their forefathers killed the prophets. Jesus goes to to say they will kill the prophets, wise men and teachers he's sending among them. Upon them will come all the righteous blood shed since the beginning of time. Jesus laments over Jerusalem, wishing he could give it comfort but refused.
I have a cherished memory from my hard days of going to graduate school and coping with small children without the money I thought I should have.
This is my memory. I'm sitting in a big, old chair with wide arms with three kids and a dog somehow crammed into the space that could at best accommodate just two of us.
The situation always began with just me and the dog lying beside me in the chair.
Then one child would squeeze in beside me, forcing the dog over.
Then another child would push the dog into the back corner of the big chair and take the dog's former place beside me.
Then the third child would sit on one of the chair arms with a book she wanted me to read because the book I had been reading with the dog had no pictures.
At this point the dog would twist and scrabble his way out of the crowd and jump to the floor, shake himself and go somewhere else to sleep.
So I sat in the chair holding a big book, two little bodies within my arms, two little heads between me and the pages of the book, a third child sitting on the chair arm, her head on my shoulder following my reading and her legs tucked in beside her sister snuggled up tight against me.
This is what my memory conjures up when I read Jesus' lament over the Jerusalem that wouldn't be comforted.
For a brief moment in my life, my children sat uninvited beside me and took their happy comfort, giving me far more.
I have similar moments with my father but I don't remember them.
I have only photos to confirm they took place.
I have memories of my children refusing to be comforted too, so angry or distressed that they would fight my arms around them.
I have memories of inviting my children to sit with me and their refusals, choosing to sit by themselves or with their mother.
Actually, they had good discernment because I was more interested in receiving their comfort than giving any to them.
When I lie in bed with my wife, she can snuggle next to be because she's smaller than I am and can fit. Although I take comfort from her closeness, I sometimes wish I could be small and held in that comfortable way.
When my life collapsed and I lost my job, my money, my self-respect and everyone I wanted, I turned to God not for comfort but out of raging blame.
I wanted to be comforted but I was too angry, too self-righteous, too self-pitying to accept any comfort from God.
I was just like my kids who, when they needed comfort, wouldn't take it, but fought me instead.
As I become more and more aware of my sin, it's hard to ask God for comfort.
My sense of undeserving often interferes in my asking.
But, like my children piling onto the big chair with me, God comes to me uninvited, to give me the comfort of his grace, undeserved but the more precious because it's undeserved.
The song "Amazing Grace" says so much about the comfort God has given me and continues to give me.
Lord, thank you for your grace. Keep me mindful of my sins so that I will never be complacent and feel I deserve your comfort. Forgive me my sins this day of anger, impatience and vengefulness. Help me always to run to you unasked. Bend my stubborn will to your great love. Give me comfort, Lord, give me comfort.
