We call it Holy Week.

We call it Holy Week, Jesus.

First, our fickle hearts sing Hosanna–“save us now!”
because we thought you were the kind of Messiah
carrying a sword, thirsty for blood.

Then, you gather us for a meal,
for hard teachings,
for the tender moment of washing our feet,
and those same feet flee when the going gets hard.
Our kisses betray you, our swords
are hungry for each other’s ears,
our lies declaim, “We don’t know the Man–leave us alone!”

How can we call this week Holy,
when abused women and men suffer,
when trans* people are beaten and raped,
when those who live with addictions and mental illness
are right next to us,
when Black lives are shot in the streets,
and we cross to the other side of the road?

(And let’s not even consider
the violences we do to those far off,
because they are invisible to us!)

Perhaps we dare to call it Holy, not because we are right,
not because death is not horrible,
but because Love weeps for us.

We dare to call it Holy because you,
the Suffering God, have acknowledged and gathered up
all this death
into your very heart, your very being.
You have breathed out,
in the presence of all your enemies:
“Father, forgive them: they don’t know what they’re doing.”

Death’s hunger and thirst has been stopped up:
It is finished.

We dare to call this Week Holy,
because on the Sabbath day, in a garden tomb,
you rested from all your work.

And then, with a surge of power beyond anything we can understand,
Death melted away:
you got up and walked out of the Garden tomb–
the first day of the New Creation.

We call this Week Holy
because death is not final.
Our cries have been heard.
Our wrongs have been forgiven.

We call this Week Holy because
it is a taste of what comes after Death has faded–
but we are still hungry and thirsty for your life.

Teach us what it means to follow you, Jesus,
because we walk out of this Week,
and you have made our lives Holy.



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