I saw you, Jesus.
You were in the back pew, with your sad eyes, and your two boys who wouldn’t sit still. Their dad was home, asleep on the couch.
I saw you.
You were in the corner of the conference-room hall. You were praying that someone might save a spot for you at a table.
You were in the diaper aisle, Jesus, with twenty items on your grocery list, but only enough money to pay for twelve.
I saw you, Jesus, but sometimes? I walk right past you.
You are the scruffy-bearded guy with the cardboard sign on the street corner. You are the overworked executive who hasn’t seen his family in a week. You live in Haiti, and you live down the street.
I have your unanswered email in my inbox.
You are the beggar, the lonely, the overlooked, the weary mother, the desperate, the out-of-style, the head-hanging-low. You know where the hidden bottles are, and how to make a life go numb. You know where the pills are, in case you want to call the whole thing off.
I saw you, Jesus. But did I serve you? Or did I simply look over your shoulder?
Lord, I beg you. Make me a servant. Cause me to sit in your pew, to kneel down in the mess on your kitchen floor, to hold your dirty hand in mine.
Because I wonder: Have we gotten too big for our britches, that we can no longer serve you in the ditches?
You are right.in.front.of.us.
How do we keep overlooking you? You’re in our newsfeeds and our living rooms, but are we looking over your shoulders for something, or someone, we find more tantalizing to feed our hungry hearts?
Dear God, make me a servant.
Jesus, you put off the privilege of heaven for the grit of earth. You gave up the throne room, for the basin. You were the only one in the history of forever who was worthy to be served, but this is what you did instead:
You put on an apron. You knelt. You washed feet. This, you said, is how you would could show “the full extent” of your love.
You had more titles than a Nobel Prize winner, but always pointed to the Father. You wowed people with miracles, then told them to keep quiet. You fed thousands, then stole away for quiet moments alone, away from the limelight. You weren’t about celebrity; you were about serving.
Lord, I want to serve you, just like you served. I want to serve you, but how often have I missed you sitting in the corners, the classrooms, the cubicles and the carpool lines? How often have I chased glitter?
Lord, I beg you: Break any platform, microphone, blog post, or book of mine, if it does not bring You alone glory. We were not made for fame or fortune, but for the Father.
Strip me of any desire in my crowded heart to be known or applauded. Don’t let me get paralyzed by popularity or praise.
Make me a servant. Don’t allow me to overlook the overlooked. Take me to dark corners. Make my hands dirty. Break my two-faced heart. Give me an apron and a basin.
Because Lord Jesus… I don’t want to get to heaven and find out that, despite all I ever said or wrote or preached or Tweeted, I had missed out on the chance to serve you. To kneel beside.
To wash the feet of a King.
“I have given you an example to follow. Do as I have done to you.”
~ Jesus Christ