The thought of Jesus weeping kind of arrested me this morning. I’m reading the account of His triumphal entry . . . that foreshadowing of His entry into Jerusalem as King . . . accompanied by such an outburst of public praise and worship that it rightly only belonged to God . . . that moment when the stones were queued up, ready to declare His glory, should the mouths of His disciples be silent. And amidst the adulation . . . unnoticed by most during this praise fest . . . Jesus wept.

And when He drew near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, “Would that you, even you, had known on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. . . . And they will not leave one stone upon another in you, because you did not know the time of your visitation.”    (Luke 19:41-42, 44b ESV)

Jerusalem . . . the place of “double peace” . . . the city of God’s choosing that His glory might dwell among His people. The city of peace which tragically did not recognize the Prince of Peace . . . the place of peace which did not see in Him the things that made for peace. A city which did not know the time of its visitation . . . a city so so wrapped up in prideful, blinded, man-made religion that it did not recognize that the Messiah they had been waiting for was entering its gates for one last inspection. And, as Jesus paused before entering Jerusalem’s gates, He wept.

It kind of puts a pit in your stomach to consider that the creation can be so lost that it causes the Creator to cry. Your heart breaks as the Shepherd looks to those who He would have as His flock only to be rejected by them. The Savior is in their midst . . . and they didn’t know it . . . they wouldn’t have it . . .

I wonder if sometimes I move Jesus to tears. I don’t know. But I wonder if there are times when He desires to reveal His glory but my heads so not in the game that I don’t recognize His entry. If there are times when He seeks to draw near but my face is turned away, distracted by some other “priority”. If there are times when He comes to visit and I don’t even know it. And if, in those times, it grieves my Savior.

But as I consider Jesus weeping, I’m also reminded of His compassion and commitment towards those He has called to be His own. That any tears of His that may fall in heaven over my denseness are reflective of His desire to complete the work He has begun in me. His blood being sufficient to cleanse me from all sin . . . His grace sufficient to cover my failures as I stumble while trying to walk in a manner worthy of the calling . . . His Word living and active and able to transform as it penetrates my thick skull . . . His Spirit powerful and persistent to conform me, more and more, to the image of the blessed Son of God.

I don’t want to make Jesus cry . . . if that’s possible. But how I thank God for a Lord who is compassionate and whose tender mercies never fail. How I praise the Father that the Son longs to dwell within me through the Spirit and, though there are times that I might “miss the visitation”, He will stand at the door and knock . . . and come in when invited . . . and clean house as necessary . . and forgive sins when confessed . . . and continue to reveal Himself as the Shepherd King.

For His glory . . .