Fire of the sun burned…Scorching away the dross.
The steps of the backside of the large cathedral, is spotted with Incan Indians, here in Cusco. Their faces comfort my gasping heart.
Yet, I feel small, forgotten. I had flown across the continents, glided into the Andes, stepped my feet down in faith, in this land I knew I was drawn to…
Yet, none of it made sense. Why did I feel called after twenty-three years to come to this place of my husband’s ancestors?
Why did I see that bridge while praying, envision it during worsihp? What did it all mean?
And was it crazy to follow some impression? Pursue this call I felt in my soul pulling me in this direction? Is it ever completely logical to follow after His heart?
Leathery leaves. Dyed-haired Jesus-bashing tour guide. High altitude. Sun burning-instead of shining, in this place cancer is on the increase due to the ozone layer thining…
Why? Why was I here?
I plopped down like a worthless substance onto the churches’ back steps, looking to my left at the man in rags still petting a scrawny puppy…
The reality of a humble life was not uncomfortably close to me.
Tweet ThisThe front side of the church was filled with gradiose windows, steeples, high-steps tastefully displaying people with cameras, capturing this spectacle piercing the sky.
Where would Jesus be, if this was a temple in His day? My guess is He’d be with the poor, meeting the needs of the many, not on the front steps seeking worship, but here in the shadow of the steeple, with the poor.
For, don’t the need
y know power comes from the up close connecting with His heart, not from the far off gazing at man-made structures or images?
My homeless friend bends low, won’t look at me, despite me staring and feeling vulverable and utterly connected to him.
I sense his starving, the aching there on the steps of redemption. I feel the hope of his heart to find peace and refuge. The same rest on these steps, I was seeking.
We are not that different from eachother, really.
His mongral begs for scraps, and yet, he gave…A man with nothing offers all he has for even another more needy.
And I wonder, us with much, do we clench tight, greedily? Do we keep and hoard, seek and covet…when the humble and meek, they give, because they know at the end of the day, they already have nothing.
I have heard it said, it is the poor who are rich, and the rich who are poor. Some people are so poor, all they have is money.
And I think of the greedy. Large gold-plated pieces lifted high for the world to see….
And I wonder again, where would Jesus be? Sitting in one of those high-backed, velvet-lace chairs, holding decoratively-hand sculped cherry-wood hand-rails?
Or would He be back here? With the poor, the local people? Those who gave up their land for those seeing to gain wealth?
And how many times have I missed Him in my pride? In my, stand up on the front stairs, taking selfies, displaying images of what I think are guarantees of health and wealth?
I got it, as I gaspe, struggling for air. I was not the elite, but hungry, tired, week, needy, and thirsty…Just like the least of these on these back stairs in the shadow of the steeple.
Maybe the tour-guide was right?
Maybe my heritage, my people weren’t a reflection of the kind, humble Jesus I now know 
personally. Maybe they bullied and down-right decimated a culture rich is humility and heart.
The homeless man must have felt the weight of my staring, longing, my identifying with him…becuase he stood feebly, grabbing his scarce belonging, taking his broken shoes, shuffled away.
I gasp for air…realizing my own poverty. My own lack despite the possessions I have back in America…
Maybe he was rich, and I am poor.
I tell my husband, “I need water”, as we wade back into the open sun, climb the hill to our hotel room, grind up the cobblestone path, towards the cross high, overlooking it all…
There, my darkest hour would soon come…
It was soon, I would realize a kind of unfolding, humility would fully grip me…a vision of Jesus would change my entire thinking…
I would learn of my own poverty…re-discovering the true path to riches…despite all I owned or possesed…
Amid shallow breathes, sweaty palms, and a mind that would soon ask, “Would I make it to toomorrow?”
(This post is part of a full series of posts that led to a shoe campaign for the children of Peru. Rea prior posts HERE)
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4 Comments
Jen, so many good thoughts here about the nature of worship and wealth, and where Jesus would land if He were in a body in 2018. Thanks for this journey!
Jen, wow, your tweet about the some people are so poor they only have their money – so, so true. I am just finishing a series on the Beatitudes and that is what I also came to understand with the Beatitude of: Blessed are the poor in spirit. 🙂 Blessings
Loving this series Jen, and learning with you that the poor can be rich, and the rich can be poor.
Wow! Such a powerful post you’ve shared here, Jen! Will be sure to check out the rest of the series. Blessing! 🙂