Holy Week

It’s Holy Week, that strange and storied eight days, from Sunday to Sunday, beginning with a “triumphal entry” into the city of cities, a city rife with rumors and rebellion, under the iron fist of Rome and a local leadership bound and determined to maintain peace. The crowds roar their approval, with palm branches and cloaks laid down before the procession, the entry of Jesus and his disciples, from the Mount of Olives, on a donkey, rather than a steed of war - an image of hope and deliverance.

What was the crowd thinking?

Many things, I’m sure, but caught up in the moment of those days, that week, a time fraught with so much hope and so many dreams, the crowd welcomed Jesus. He had a reputation for tweaking proud noses, and irritating the righteous. The crowds loved that sort of thing.

But it didn’t take for the crowd to crow a different tune a few days later. Oh how fickle the crowds can be. Fame so fleeting, and then it’s gone. Another race, another bet.

The officials consider what needs to be done, and Judas conspires with them, for his thirty-dirty-pieces of silver, and what was he thinking?

With a kiss, just to make sure the police get the right man, Judas betrays him. Jesus is led away, beaten and bloodied, presented to Pilate, then to Herod, and then back to Pilate - a show of law and order, but a complete and total moral failure. Power always has trouble with truth … power understands power, but truth is another matter. Finally, the roaring crowds are given a choice: shall it be Jesus or perhaps Barabbas; a prophet or a rebel?

The story ends badly, at least for Jesus. He’s led to a cross, a Roman execution, in a most public place, to let the world know who’s in charge and who calls the shots.

Jesus is crucified, dead, and buried.

Of Barabbas, we know nothing.

Of Pilate? Well, it didn’t end well for him either. Rome wasn’t happy, and so he’s invited to an early retirement.

Holy Week - when the darkest of motives are exposed, when God’s presence in our world is utterly and completely rejected by the crowds, by the powers, by just about everyone.

It seems that one of the two rebels crucified with Jesus had some regard for him. And the women at the foot of the cross, too. And then Jesus is dead, and just to make sure, a spear is driven into his gut by one of the soldiers; was it the one who was struck by it all? Soldiers doing their job, but not always happy

about it.

Jesus is tucked away … hurriedly … in a borrowed tomb … the disciples slink away to gather their thoughts and plan the next move, but mostly to hide from the growing threat of retaliation against them. And that was that.

But we shall meet them again, in the next chapter. But for now, we have to wait. That’s part of the strangeness of Holy Week. Nothing is entirely clear; it’s a time of fog and fatigue, disappointment and despair … one of those times when we cling to one another, even as words fail us. We cry, and we cry out.

Until then …

Christmas and Hope

To all who are looking for hope, head on over to Bethlehem.

But be careful ... Herod is huffing and puffing.

Yes, hope is what we're dealing with.
Perhaps, like Paul notes, not in things we can see.
But things unseen.
Things that once seemed a bit more palpable.
But now shadowy and dim.

For the time being, Herod's in charge.
Backed by Rome.
And the religious elite of Jerusalem.
No one wanted an upset.

Except God.
Who seems intent on upsetting things.

So, who knows what tomorrow holds.
Though I like to think:
God holds us, in good hands.

I don't want to get all sentimental on this stuff.
Which is easy to do.
And nothing like sentiment to dull the senses.
And mislead the soul.

For way too many, or so I think.
Sentiment satisfies the soul.
So the soul can be locked up again.
Until next year.

A little sentiment, like cinnamon, goes a long way.
Have fun.
Rejoice.
Sing "Silent Night" and light a candle.

But don't be misled.
Herod's power is soon to be revealed.
His fear and hatred soon to explode.
And the Holy Family flees for their life.

This Christmas is different for me.
I can't get Herod out of my mind.
And, I suppose, it would be wrong to try.
It's the way of things, far too often.

Merry Christmas, I'll say.
Because Christmas is the account of hope in dark times.
The account hope that sustains.
Even on the Refugee Road, with the Holy Family.

Tough Times

Tough times.
Hard times.
Miserable times.
Such was the case.

For baby Jesus.
Parents on the move.
Ordered by Herod.
Hateful, hideous, paranoid Herod.

On the move.
Cold and dark.
The little inn was full.
But the inn keeper made room, anyhow.

We can always find room.
Jesus doesn't need much.
Just a little place will do.
And life begins anew.

And the birth came about.
Angeles sang to low-downs in the fields.
Foreigners saw the star and arrived.
Herod heard and Herod howled.

Who's this upstart?
This pretender to the throne!
This nobody!
Of no account!

But the wise men seem to know something.
I need to know, too.
Where's the little bastard.
Bethlehem, you say?

Kill 'em all.
Every last child.
Girl, boy - who cares.
Kill 'em all.

Parents flee to good old Egypt.
Nemesis and friend.
Where it all began.
Pharaoh and all.

Herod goes to hell in a handbasket.
Eaten up by worms.
Fitting end, I suppose,
For such a crummy creep.

But life wasn't to be easy for the child.
Life was one hardship after the other.
Maybe the first 30 years weren't too bad.
Good momma and good father.

But the last three.
A test for sure.
Easy way out?
Or the hard way in?

He choose the hard way.
And people hated him for it.
Couldn't wait to get rid of him.
Put an end to his malarkey.

But we're sort of stuck with him now.
But we still get rid of him, too.
We make his birth a commercial success.
And some yell Merry Christmas, in your face.

And groan and moan about taking Christ out of the deal.
When he's never been in the deal anyway.
Not the American deal of cash and carry.
Nor the evangelical stuff of sawdust and tears.

Life still isn't easy for the child.
For the man.
For God.
For Christ.