Come and see…

Four days in the tomb.  It was on that fourth day that Jesus arrived.  Mary was heartbroken.  Weeping.  Grieving over the loss of her brother.  Martha heard that Jesus was near and went to meet Him.

No nonsense Martha.  But her heart was heavy too.  They talked.  Martha, hinting that she was confident that God would give Jesus *whatever* He asked.  Asking for the most miraculous of all miracles, perhaps?  Jesus, knowing the very outcome of these moments in time.  Yet fully present.

And He was moved by what He saw.

As Mary came to him, as Jesus looked upon her tear-stained face, as He saw the grief of those surrounding her, He felt their pain, palpable.  He knew it.  God in human flesh.  Fully God, yet fully man, and not without compassion.  Mary threw herself at His feet, completely done in by the sight of Him.  By the vastness of her loss.  And after hoping and praying and wishing that Jesus would come, empty when He did not.

Jesus asked very simply, “Where have you laid him?”  And with equal simplicity, Mary answers, “Come and see.”

“Come and see.”

In my mind’s eye, I see Mary reaching out as she utters these words.  She offers her hand to Him.  And I see Him taking it.  (And yes, I’m sure this is wildly inaccurate in regards to the culture of the day, but please, gentle reader, bear with me…)

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Mary reaching out because she knew Jesus had exactly what she needed, drawing strength from Him, pressing into His sovereignty.

They went. And Jesus wept.  For a moment, it seems like His humanness was larger than life.  He was exposed.

How often, I wonder, does Jesus weep over me?  When I finally turn to Him.  When I finally get to the end of myself.  When I hold out my hands and say, “Come and see…”

Come and see, Jesus.  Come and see the broken and dead things in my life.  Come and see the mess I have made.  If you were here, perhaps I wouldn’t be in this mess.  Probably I would have done better.  Been more.  Worked harder.  Gone farther.  But come and see, Jesus.  Come and see.

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But no.  I wouldn’t have done better.  Because I can’t.  And He was there all along.  Not limited by what I see or feel or think or do.

Come to me, I invite.  Hands open wide.  Surrendered.  Reaching out.

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I reach.  And He comes.  And He weeps.  Not because of the mess I’ve made.  But in spite of it.

He sees the big picture.  He was already at Calvary for my mess and brokenness and certain death.  He has already fought that battle.  But He weeps for me all the same.

Why?

Because He loves me.

It’s as simple as that.

And He reminds me of this:

“I am the resurrection and the life.  He who believes in me will live, even though he dies and whoever lives and believes in me will never die…”  John 11:25-26

Jesus weeps as I stand in the middle of my brokenness.  But he reaches right back to me, refusing to let me there.  By rights, that’s where I belong.  Still, He draws me close and hides me in the shadow of His wings.  And in the middle of His grace and love and utter security, He reminds me to sing again.  To find rest.

And truly, in the shadow of His wings, I sing again.

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