And Ye Would Not

There is someone you would gather if they would let you.

You would pull them out of it. Bring them home. Take the thing out of their hands before it costs them more than they understand. You can already see what they cannot see yet, and if loving them gave you the power to choose for them, you would have chosen differently a long time ago.

But they have a will too.

Jesus knew the grief of wanting to gather those who would not come.

That does not make you Christ, and it does not make the person you love Jerusalem. But His lament gives words to a grief many people know.

In Matthew 23, Jesus looked toward Jerusalem and said:

“O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!”

He would.

They would not.

There is an entire heartbreak between those two wills.

The picture Jesus chose is tender. A hen gathering her young beneath her wings. Shelter close enough to enter. Protection near enough to receive.

And yet they would not.

Luke records another moment when Jesus approached Jerusalem: “And when he was come near, he beheld the city, and wept over it.”

He wept.

There are choices love cannot watch without grief.

Some of you know that grief well.

You have watched someone return to the thing that keeps hurting them. You have watched promises unravel. You have lain awake replaying conversations and wondering whether there was one sentence you failed to say correctly.

Maybe I should have noticed sooner.

Maybe I should have been firmer.

Maybe I should have been gentler.

Maybe if I had loved them better, they would have listened.

But another person’s refusal is not always evidence of your failure.

A person can be offered shelter and still refuse the wings.

When you can see the consequence coming, standing still feels almost cruel. So you keep reaching, explaining and catching what falls until their life has quietly become the thing keeping you awake at night.

Because somewhere along the way, you started carrying a choice that was never placed in your hands.

You can love someone deeply and still be unable to surrender their heart for them.

You cannot repent in their place. You cannot believe on their behalf. You cannot make someone choose what they are determined to refuse.

You are not God.

And admitting that is not the same thing as giving up on them.

It means returning to God the part you were never meant to control.

Jerusalem's refusal mattered to Him. But His grief did not erase their will.

You thought loving them meant finding the way to make this turn out differently.

Maybe love means something harder now. Praying without pretending the outcome is yours.

Matthew 23 does not end with the lament alone.

Jesus says, “Behold, your house is left unto you desolate.”

There are real consequences to refusal. Love does not make them disappear.

But the next verse says, “For I say unto you, Ye shall not see me henceforth, till ye shall say, Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord.”

In its context, that verse speaks of Israel’s future recognition of the Messiah. It is not a promise that the person you love will change on your timetable.

But it does remind you that you do not know everything God may still do beyond what you can presently see.

He may meet them farther down the road than you were ever able to follow.

Maybe you have been carrying guilt for someone else’s “would not.”

Put it down.

Prayer

One word, every week.

Scripture, reflection, and one thing to carry with you.