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Every Holy Week we’re invited to follow along as the days and events unfold. If we really enter into it, live each moment along with the characters portrayed in the Gospels, our emotions are taken for an unpredictable ride with wild swings and tumbles. The action builds to an unsettling climax. Let’s look into this annual, yet somehow eternal, pattern and flow.

Palm Sunday, with it’s foreshadowing of Good Friday, starts our seven-day journey. We, as part of the crowd gathered to purify ourselves to celebrate Passover, welcome and celebrate Jesus’ arrival in Jerusalem, waving palm branches and shouting Hosannas. Here is the conquering king promised by God. Our liberation is finally at hand. How can we not be filled with hope and joy? But there’s something just a bit off. Jesus enters on a donkey, not astride a warhorse. We don’t care, after all our waiting he’s here.

Monday, the religious authorities and the Roman spy network are buzzing, following Jesus’ every movement. Pontius Pilate, the Roman Procurator, is not a kindly man. He was commissioned by Caesar as responsible for imposing Roman rule on the province of Judea with its unruly population. He despises the Jewish people, no doubt considers them an inferior race, and takes every opportunity to harshly grind them under his heel. He needs to keep Caesar happy in order to get out of this fetid Bywater to be sent to a more prestigious post, hopefully closer to civilization. He, of course, was first to be informed. Jesus goes to the Temple area to continue his mission of teaching to the myriads of pilgrims gathered there. We go there to see what he will do.

Tuesday, the atmosphere in the overcrowded city is electric. There are five times the normal population constantly in one another’s space. Jesus doesn’t seem to be making his move to overthrow the hated, oppressive Roman domination. What’s going on? There is usually a larger visible presence of Roman soldiers during these big festivals, but this year we see significantly more. These foreign mercenaries are everywhere and seem on edge, ready to act with speed and brute force. We go to the Temple area in case that’s where the takeover will start, but we keep near to the edges so that we can escape quickly – if necessary. The religious authorities continue to confront Jesus to try to discover his plans. Maybe there’s a weak link in his closest followers – those that are always with him – that they can manipulate to get at their so-called rabbi. 

Wednesday, we begin to feel twinges of disappointment. Nothing’s happening! Is this teacher and healer from Galilee just that? His words seem so powerful – like a prophet sent by God, but is he the One? Under the cover of the bustle, Judas Iscariot, one of Jesus’ inner Twelve, sneaks off to the chief priests and the officers of the Temple guard and asks, “What will you give me if I hand that man you want so badly over to you?” They offer thirty pieces of silver, a tiny sum for someone they have been trying to get hold of. Judas takes the money and disappears in the crowd to surface again close to Jesus. He’s looking for the right time and place to fulfill his end of the bloody bargain. The two-pronged threat to Jesus’ life is much greater now.

It’s Thursday, the eve of Passover, remembering our time of bitter slavery among the Egyptians. It’s a time to reflect on our past and to thank God for the gift of our present, though compromised, freedom. Tonight we gather as families to relive that time – the plagues, the Angel of Death, the blood, the lamb, bitter herbs and unleavened bread, dressed and ready to flee. We will drink the cups of wine as we retell our story. Jesus is unimportant now. He’s a fraud; one more wannabe. We need to get on with our lives as they are. Maybe next year?

Jesus and those with him also gather for the time-honored rituals. The Twelve are in high spirits. What they’ve been waiting for, hoping for, is at hand. They can feel it. It’s the beginning of Passover. Jesus, who is often the life of the party, by contrast, seems subdued. Is he sad? How can that be?  As the meal is served and they begin to eat and drink, Jesus suddenly comes out with, “One of you, one of those I’ve chosen, one of you who have been privy to my inmost thoughts and desires, one sharing this sacred meal with me now, is about to hand me over to those who want to get rid of me.” Shocked silence, then a chorus of denials -“Surely it’s not I, Master!” Jesus goes on, “And the rest of you will all run away and desert me.” Immediately they assure Jesus that they’re with him no matter what. Peter, the impetuous, even goes so far as to blurt out, “If everyone else leaves you, I won’t. I’m ready to die for you.” Jesus answers, “Will you die for me? Really? Tonight before dawn you will deny me three times.” Peter shouts, “Never will I deny you! Not me!” Jesus smiles and sadly shakes his head.

Jesus modifies the time-honored rite when he takes a piece of the bread, holds it up, and says, “This is my body given over for you.” Then he takes a cup of wine and, instead of the usual formula says, “This is the cup of my blood to be poured out for you and for many. All of you take, eat, drink, and remember me this way.” After the meal they go out of the city, cross the Kidron Valley, and climb up to one of Jesus’ preferred places to pray when in Jerusalem, locally known as the Mount of Olives and the Garden of Gethsemane.

Around midnight, the other disciples dozing from all the food and wine, Judas comes leading an armed band of guards and they seize Jesus. The groggy disciples act like they’re going to resist, but see they are badly outnumbered. One swings wildly with a sword and happens to cut off the ear of one of the captors. Jesus tells them that he doesn’t want any bloodshed. Violence only begets more violence. The Twelve run for their lives. The guards lead Jesus to the house of Caiaphas, the High Priest. 

Peter follows at a safe distance and furtively enters the courtyard of the High Priest. It’s a cold night, so he inches his way towards a fire to keep warm. Sure enough, three different people see Peter and identify him as one of Jesus’ band. His very accent gives him away. He denies it, each time with more vehemence. Jesus’ words come back to him and he realizes what he has just done, breaks down and weeps, and again runs away.

Caiaphas interrogates Jesus about his teaching and other activities. Jesus remains silent. When pressed, Jesus responds, “I have taught and acted openly, even in the Temple area, you can ask anyone what they heard me say or saw me do.” One of the armed guards violently slaps Jesus across the face for what the guard considers as insolence to the High Priest. Jesus calmly looks at the guard and says, “If what I have said is true, why do you strike me?” Caiaphas believes that he has plenty of evidence of Jesus’ guilt to condemn him, so, in the morning, he gathers the whole Council and the majority certainly agrees with their chief. Jesus is guilty and must die. One problem. They don’t have permission from Rome to impose capital punishment. They need to get Pilate to see that Jesus is a threat to the Empire.

They drag Jesus, still bound, off to the fortress of the Romans to urgently demand that Pilate hear their case.  The religious leaders attract a huge crowd of us along the way. When we all arrive at Pilate’s headquarters, the religious authorities remain outside of the pagan grounds, so that they won’t defile themselves and not be able to continue to celebrate the Great Feast. Pilate comes out to them, not surprised that they are there with this Galilean. His network of informants is quite large and efficient. He hears their plea, but is not convinced. If this man has broken their own law, they may go ahead and punish him themselves. They scream out that this rebel has been gathering throngs of followers and claims to be a king – a rival to Caesar. Pilate tries to question Jesus, but Jesus remains silent. Pilate tries to release for them either this Jesus, or a well-known rioter known as Barabbas. The High Priest and his Council incite us to shout for Barabbas. We, who just a few days ago welcomed Jesus into the city with shouts of Hosanna, now repeatedly cry out at the top of our lungs, “Crucify him!” We become so loud and angry that Pilate fears a riot. That would not look good to Caesar. He takes Jesus into custody and instructs his own troops to prepare this pretender for crucifixion.

The Roman guards have no pity for these “Jews.” They are bored because they have been on high alert, yet there’s been no real action in the city these past days. Now they have the “King of the Jews” to do with as they please. They had been playing a game when the “boss” called them to take charge of this criminal, and the loser was to suffer whatever the others decide. The loser quickly indicates that this Jesus would be a good target for their sport. They decide that a king deserves to be dressed and crowned as a king. The soldiers strip Jesus, put a purple cloak on their new “loser,” and weave a crown for him out of thorn branches. They mock, spit upon, and kneel before his majesty. When they get tired of their sport they replace the cloak with the man’s own clothing. Then they deliver the standard punishment for a serious felon – forty lashes using various types of whips, guaranteed to rip and tear the flesh. Many die from this flogging, but that’s not their problem.

They gather the death squad, drop a heavy wooden crossbeam on their pisoner’s shoulders, and drag him off out of the city and up a hill to the execution site. Some of us are sympathetic when we see how Jesus has been treated. Others, feeling disillusioned by this fake, ridicule him. Jesus does not respond, but slowly, silently plods on. They all arrive on top of the Place of the Skull – a bald height in plain site of the city, where several stout, notched posts, not too tall, were already planted firmly in the ground waiting to secure the crossbeams of those Rome wanted to exhibit as graphic warning against defiance of any kind. They strip Jesus naked, throw him on top of the crossbeam lying on the ground, and nail his wrists firmly so that there is no way he can pull free before dying. Then, using ropes, the haul Jesus up the post, drop the beam into a groove and let his body violently fall into place, pulling against the nails. His feet are then also nailed to a wooden block fixed just far enough down the post to cause the most discomfort and pain. Two others, previously crucified, are still alive and trying to guess what this other miscreant has done and why there is such a vehement crowd with him.

We, as is the case with most humans, are eager to see any spectacle that comes along, even if bloody and tragic. We gather just outside the perimeter the Romans have established to watch and jeer, as the victim slowly becomes exhausted and, unable to lift himself anymore to draw breath, collapses and suffocates to death. A few women who had come with Jesus from Galilee are standing as close as they were allowed. Being women, they were not seen as a threat. They are there helplessly watching, crying, being with their Master until the end. They have no illusions that he is going to miraculously free himself from the cross, and from death.

After several hours, the sky darkens, a strong wind comes up, driving sand and other loose debris on the hill into the eyes of all of us. Jesus having undergone the vicious beating, unable to push himself up any longer, cries out in a loud voice, and dies. The women wail. The soldier who led the death-squad have seen many such executions. This man was different. Instead of screaming and cursing, he silently bore this torture. He had not spewed hatred for those responsible for his agony, nor for the bitter taunts and spitting of the bystanders. The centurion exclaims. “Surely, this man was a son of God.”

Joseph of Arimathea, one of the Council, who had not supported, nor agreed with, their condemnation of Jesus, goes to Pilate and requests the body. Pilate confers with those overseeing Jesus’ execution who confirm that, yes, he was indeed dead. Pilate releases the body. Joseph takes Jesus’ body and lays it in a nearby tomb hewn out of the rock and closes it by rolling a large stone across the opening. He is in a hurry, because it is late and holy Sabbath is about to begin.

The Twelve are holed up, scared to death that the authorities will be coming for them next. Maybe they can slink out of the city undetected when large groups of pilgrims leave after the Passover celebration. They are ashamed of their cowardice. They are lost. They’ve given up everything to follow their supposed Messiah. He’s dead. It’s over. But something inside wishes it wasn’t. They can’t pretend that Jesus didn’t happen – that his work and message was in vain. But they can’t carry it on without him. They are alone. And the silence and emptiness is overwhelming. What now?

Sorry for the long silence. Of course, there are plenty of reasons.  Prepare and present a three session RCIA Lenten Retreat at our parish. Prepare and present on the topics of Resurrection, vocation, and discernment. Throw in a major family crisis and increasing health problems over the past five weeks or so. These are facts, not excuses. I’ve missed writing these reflections and have looked for spaces where time and energy came together, but could not find one. It’s not that I’ve run out of “inspirations.”

 I was out for an exercise walk on a multi-use trail a couple blocks south of our home, around the latter weeks of Lent, with the whole Pascal Mystery (Life/Suffering/ Death/Resurrection) looming on the horizon. I followed the trail around a corner and just ahead, maybe thirty yards, I came across this graffiti scrawled in large, bold black letters on the wall of an overpass that the trail passed under: Despite everything I’m still here. I have no idea who this person was, or what they had lived through, that they felt compelled to shout this defiant cry out to the cold hard world he or she is living in. I immediately could relate. But as I walked on, this statement, this cry painted on cement, seemed to fit very well with what Jesus went through. 

Easter — the huge stone rolled away, the empty tomb, the discarded burial cloths, friends and colleagues of Jesus experiencing their dear friend – whom they had seen arrested, tortured, cruelly executed – against all expectation, alive, suddenly present with them – but in a different way. And their lives were transformed. The disciples who had just been cowering behind locked doors, terrorized that the authorities would come for them next, went out to the whole Roman world of their day, facing torture and death unafraid, and planted seeds that took root and flourished, in some way even to today.

I can just picture Jesus standing on the hill of public execution, Calvary, that first day of the week, shouting triumphantly, “Despite everything, I’m still here!” Life, lived in self-giving love, in God, is stronger than death. It’s no contest.

Jesus invites us to become like little children – spontaneous, filled with wonder, super-trusting, open, eager to learn and to grow. Jesus, though, is not encouraging childishness. Children love to play. It’s their way to explore the world, to learn the rules of how things work and how to be with others. 

When we “play games” with others: when we don’t deal with them openly, honestly, fairly, when we manipulate and use twisted emotions to get our own way, we are NOT being like little children. We are behaving like spoiled brats. This is not playful, but destructive, and self-destructive.

Sometimes we might find ourselves playing games with the divine. This is not very healthy for our relationship with God. One common game we could try is hide and seek. We pretend that God can’t find us, especially when we are doing something that we consider bad or sinful. (Remember the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden.) As if there is any place apart from God who is here, everywhere. Maybe we think that if we keep God out of our consciousness, God can’t see us. Like little children who cover their eyes and declare, “You can’t see me now!” As if we can keep God “in the dark.”

It can also be that we imagine God playing hide and seek with us. We can feel that God is an expert at this game – hidden and impossible to find. God certainly can be silent, which is disconcerting in our world of uninterrupted noise. But God is always there, even when we can’t sense God’s loving presence. When we believe this, God emerges from the shadows. This is not necessarily consoling, because it may seem to us that no one or nothing is “there.” God is playful, but God doesn’t play games

Once upon a time, I read a reflection from a theologian (beware of people who play in the sandbox of theology). He was trying to make a point, which I never quite understood. For him, there is a distinction between the work of God and God’s work. This theologian insisted that we can do one, but not the other. But which one is which?

I’m writing this on Labor Day here in the United States. My guess is that we certainly can do godly work –  work inspired by God and that reflects the goodness and universal heart of God. But we as surely cannot do what only God can do. Our work, at its best, mirrors God’s.

God creates, continually. We can use our gift for creativity to make this world a better place. God reveals, continually. We can use our gifts for communication to make clearer the truth, beauty and goodness in all that is. We can use our communicative abilities to bring together what doesn’t seem (to our fearful hearts) to belong together – just like God does. God inspires, continually. We can use our gifts for lifting others up and helping them to see a new and a fuller vision of what is, and of what can be. God heals, continually. We can use our gifts to bring healing and peace to others. God liberates, continually. We can use our gifts to set people free from their illusions, and their belief in the seductive powers of darkness, by inviting them gently, lovingly into warm, welcoming light.

Our world is so terribly wounded, broken, hurting, lost, and wandering aimlessly. There is plenty of work that we can, and need to, do. We pray along with the verse from the Psalm (Psalm 90:16-17): “Prosper the work of our hands,” and the work of our hearts, our spirits, our minds, our lives. Prosper all that we do, moved by Your Spirit. Amen.

Maybe it’s the opposite of the “Puppet Master god,” but, from our side of the divine-human equation, we, sometimes, might want to put the strings on God. If only God would do what I want!  Humans have had a fascination throughout history with trying to discover ways to manipulate God. Magic can be one of these attempts.

How great it would be to have a book of incantations to bring about whatever effects (special or not) we would like! There must be a formula of words that can unlock power, open invisible doors, transform our enemies into hideous and grotesque things. Perhaps there’s some potion we can swallow that will give us a glimpse into the mind of God.

For believers who belong to sacramental churches, there can be the understanding that, if one performs the ritual correctly we can make God appear, maybe even make God do our bidding (like rubbing an old, tarnished oil lamp). Sacraments only work because God has chosen to use created reality as a way to encounter God with us, within us, and among us. We have supplied the rituals and words. The graces that may come through them are God’s doing.

Paul Dukas’ music in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice vividly evokes the perils of ignorance playing with power to serve selfish purposes. When it comes to trying to conjure the divine, we don’t know what we are doing. There are so many other popular tales, including in the Bible, that try to demonstrate that we get in deep, deep trouble when we try to force God to jump through our hoops.

On the other hand, why would we want to go that route? God has already offered the most incredible magic of all. God has implanted the power to love in each one. We only need tap into it. To the extent that we do, we will change the world in the most beautiful way. Try the magic of love.

This dire message, dark and ominous, with the word will underlined multiple times, is on a very prominent billboard at a busy intersection near our home. The background depicts a readout from a heart monitor with a healthy looking pattern in red that suddenly morphs into a flatline, indicating the end of life. Not too subtle! Then there is a phone number, in case this warning has caught your attention and you have instantly become overwhelmed with dread of your eternal destiny, They (whoever they are) are waiting anxiously for your call. They can save you from something or other.

Instead of fear, this billboard fills me with a deep sadness. Why would anyone need to go through their whole life before they see God? Look around you! The world overflows with inexplicable gifts. In the midst of struggles, challenges, sorrows, pain and loss, there are beauty, kindness, goodness, graciousness, moments of joy. There is love – even heroic love. All we need do is look at a child, and see the wonder radiating from their eyes. God is smiling out from within all that is graceful and good. It’s a true tragedy when fear, ego and other distractions blind us from recognizing this. We can see God, here and now.

The divine and the less than divine are not polar opposites. One flows from the other. One flows into, and through, the other. People who call themselves Christian need to be very careful to not manufacture dualities. After all, we claim to believe that the Almighty shares intimately, through an amazing union with humanity, in Jesus.

How will we recognize God “after we die” if we haven’t seen God while we are alive?

Belief is a wonderful thing. It’s more than knowing, more than sensing, more than feeling. But when life comes crashing down with its full weight on our heads, faith doesn’t seem substantial enough to hold us up. We Christians believe a truly nonsensical story. God, out of love, becomes one of us, lives our life in fidelity to all that is truly right and good, and dies our death in a most humiliating and disgraceful manner. But that’s not the end. In the epilogue, this God-man, Jesus, is raised to life again and initiates a world-altering movement – dependent on faith.

No wonder, taken at face value, this appears totally outrageous. Except to some who have experienced this Jesus as a force and loving inspiration in and for their lives. Believing in Jesus, and in his story, takes courage, because it calls us to a radical change of life. The promise is, that if we can generate a critical mass of belief, and put this faith into action, our world will be transformed for the better. Many times this can feel like sledding uphill on bare dirt and loose, coarse gravel.

Jesus’ invitation doesn’t go down well to those who cautiously sit on the fence waiting for more proof, when all that is given is promise. If we trust wholeheartedly in this promise, we can experience the presence and action of God’s Spirit – aka the Holy Spirit – transforming us. We can recognize this Spirit at work within and through us to the extent that we find ourselves loving in ways we never thought possible.

Belief is a wonderful thing. And it’s not for the faint of heart.