Riding to Damascus

Source: John 13 : 1-17

Why did I let that sandal thief wash my feet?
He cast his two divining stones into the sky as if he hoped they would bring down from the gods the eyesight he didn't have. But now I'm barefoot, my feet are stinging from the cold and damp, and I'm headed for Damascus. On my word as a knight, I'm going to find Christ there.
That's the way the stones fell. A round stone for misfortune, a pointed stone for terror: you have to leave Jerusalem, leave the sacred places, move into the dark.

My spirit is dead. The only thing that keeps me going is exhaustion.
It keeps me upright, but I'm paralyzed by the darkness.

How can I tell a person whose humility blesses from someone who just uses my vanity to feel better?
Lord, why did you have me meet a sandal thief?
Do I really have to face the dark?

I believed in your kindness, you whose name is always at the edge of the universe it permeates.
I thought a God who cared enough about God's creatures to serve them was worthy of totally radical worship. Giving Godself. But now my feet are freezing — and I know why you let another barefoot fellow steal my sandals.

To get me to Jerusalem, you had to blaze a trail on the surface of the water.
Why are you looking at me like that?
I feel your gaze like an animal at bay feels a hidden hunter watching.

I know why you let somebody steal my sandals. You realized I wanted you to see me as being practically perfect. You knew that my wanting to be perfect was an unworthy attempt to attract you. So you wanted to help me. You wanted me to come to you as I am, in my human griminess. You wanted me to understand that I was not to attempt to own you. But I seek you in joyous ecstasy; I can't get used to the idea of coming to you in deathly cold.

So I agreed to leave the lights of the holy city behind and go to Damascus. Barefoot.

Lord, how can I manage without you?
Can I find you in joyless places too?