It's Holy Week. In the Christian tradition, this week begins with Jesus entering Jerusalem on a borrowed donkey on Palm Sunday, hailed as a king. Jesus shares his last meal with his closest friends, taking time to serve them even though he knows that one will betray him, one will deny him and the others will flee. He is arrested, unfairly. He is tried, wrongly. He is crucified, cruelly. He is buried, quietly. And on Easter Sunday, He is resurrected, joyfully.
Most of the time, I treat the events of this week like I'm entitled to them.Â
But occasionally, I'm hit with awareness of my entitlement and a realization that I'm entitled to nothing. I'm selfish and prideful and prone to mood swings. I’m constantly striving for attention and recognition yet always coming up short. I don't get why Jesus would die for my selfishness and my pride and my mood swings and my inadequacy. Yet he does.
I found the above poem in an old journal, and it seemed appropriate for this week. It reminded me of how much time I spend believing I'm entitled to something I could never begin to earn.
It's easy for me to read about Jesus and imagine his interactions as robotic and impersonal. In my mind He easily becomes a distant figure who carefully plans each move and scripts each word, a King who rides into Jerusalem wearing a paper crown.Â
My favorite account of Jesus' last week and resurrection is in the Bible's book of John. Jesus lays it all out for the disciples. Before they can really understand what's to come, he comforts them.Â
And after dying and returning, he gets up close and personal with the heartbroken, the doubting and the disloyal. In every instance, he shows immense love. That love gives reason for immense joy.
I picture him looking over Jerusalem and crying for the people he deeply loves (Luke 19: 28-44). I imagine final embraces with his closest companions after he has knelt to wash their feet. I smell the fish being cooked on the beach for his exhausted, disillusioned friends (John 21). In these acts of love, there is no room for the impersonal.
For me, the journey of faith has been accepting that there is a lot of paradox and nuance and mystery I may never understand in this life. Some things I will always see yet not perceive, hear yet not comprehend. But the stories of Holy Week will remain stories if I can't pair them with the realization of what they mean for me beyond the text, beyond a church service, beyond this week that we call holy.
I think of when I've experienced comfort in misunderstanding, healing in heartache, assurance in doubt and forgiveness in disloyalty. I think of when I've known immense love and experienced immense joy. In these things, Jesus helps my unbelief.
If you observe Holy Week, I hope you can observe that it's more than a week. The stories told during this week represent a pattern that occurs daily: we continuously run away from the Father while he constantly waits for us on the shore with a warm fire and a meal prepared.Â
If you don’t observe Holy Week, I hope you can observe that there’s a place for you around the fire. The meal was prepared with you in mind.
And when we finally show up, exhausted and barely able to speak, we whisper, "I don't deserve this," and He looks at us, smiles with kindness and says, "I know." In that moment, we see that the resurrection he experienced is for us too. In that moment, we can believe.Â
Pass a note back
If you observe Holy Week, what does that look like for you? What are you learning through it this year?
If you don’t observe Holy Week or celebrate Easter, what are your thoughts on it?
Where do you find yourself needing help in unbelief?
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