holy week

i love the holiday season. if you didn't know, my holiday season kicks off on my birthday (june 26th) and ends with new year's day. even trumping my birthday in excitement and pure joy is christmas eve. it's my favorite day of the year. however, over the past couple of years this holy week - the week between palm sunday and easter sunday - has taken precedence. why? because this is the week that my faith hinges on.

i've started a tradition where each year i start with the story of jesus' "triumphal entry" into jerusalem in the gospels, and each day i read through a portion of the story, ending with the resurrection on easter sunday. i want to know this story. i want to be so sobered by this story - partcularly this week - that it is as though i am walking the streets of jerusalem with christ.

one thought specifically has weighed heavy on my heart this week: what must jesus have felt as he entered jerusalem on that sunday? he had left his home only a few years before to begin his ministry. he left everything he knew. he spent three years on the road, running from pharisees who wanted him dead, preaching and teaching, and, in general, stirring up a revolution. but this was THE week. this was the week that his very life was destined for. this was why he had come. what heaviness must have crushed his human shoulders - to know that in four short days he would share a precious, intimate passover meal with is beloved disciples, where he would explain to them yet again what was about to transpire - and yet again they wouldn't understand; a few hours later he'd be betrayed by a man he loved and handed over to jewish authorities; shortly after that he'd be beaten within an inch of his life - beaten to the point that his own mother would barely know him - flesh ripped and hanging from his back, eyes swollen shut, blood pouring from thorn pricks on his forehead, his body screaming in pain he had only imagined; a bit later laboring through dirty, dusty, crowded streets bearing the weight of a roman cross, sharp with splinters, on his raw back; and finally, stakes would be driven through his wrists and feet, he would be hung from a cross, nails tearing through muscles and tendons, veins and flesh, and a sword would split his side. his life would rush out. and friends, though the physical pain was immense, it was no match for the spiritual agony christ faced. in that moment he would become our sin - my sin and your sin. he would literally be our sin. his father, with whom he had enjoyed eternal intimacy and perfect fellowship, would reject him - would turn his face away, because he could not look on sin. jesus would be separated from his father for the first (and only) time. he would bear the entire wrath of god. for me. and for you, sweet friend. and hallelujah, on that glorious easter morning, he would draw a breath and raise up from the dead! he would claim the keys of death forever! he would take hold of victory for me!

i can't imagine what he must have felt during the days of that sacred week 2,000 years ago. the love of christ surpasses anything i can possibly fathom in my puny little pea-brain. a love that would know what was coming on that thursday, and endure it anyway, with willingness and humility and forgiveness - even for a sinner like me - wretched, filthy, wandering, and unfaithul.

i am so thankful, and i am so unworthy of the love of christ demonstrated on the cross.