Holy Week


“It’s not a tattoo; it’s just marker,” I told the friend who asked at lunch.

If I got a tattoo of a cross somewhere I could see it, I’d probably eventually get used to it, and it would lose its significance as a reminder. But I don’t think that will happen in just seven days and I so desperately want to spend this week remembering, so during our pastor’s Palm Sunday sermon, I took my brown felt-tipped pen and inked a little t shape on the inside of my left wrist.

I used to have mixed feelings about Palm Sunday.

None of the crowds shouting “hosanna” on Sunday stood by Jesus on Friday when He turned out to be a very different kind of savior than they expected. It seemed, to me, like a celebration of fair-weather Christianity.

But this year, as I’ve observed Lent in a very traditional way–a way that sees each Sunday as a mini-easter and a respite from the discipline of fasting–it’s heightened my sense of expectation for the coming resurrection. And when I got up yesterday morning, just one Sunday away from Easter, I couldn’t get these words out of my mind: “…Jesus set out resolutely for Jerusalem.”

The crowds lining the streets from the Mount of Olives to the temple may not have known what awaited Jesus in Jerusalem, but He did.

And He came anyway.

For you.

For me.

The New American Standard Bible says “he was determined” to come. He wouldn’t give up on our salvation, even when that road led to His very own cross.

So as we draw ever closer to observing the worst, best Friday in all of history,  I’m lifting up my voice this week and shouting: “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”

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