Entering Holy Week

Yesterday morning, Palm Sunday in my parish began with a short procession. Waving palms, and a few sprigs and branches of greenery, we clapped and sang with gusto Hosanna in the highest... Glory to the King of kings... Lord, we lift up your name, with our hearts full of praise, be exalted, O Lord our God... Even though we walked slowly, the sound travelled at an even more leisurely pace from the front (where the choir was) to the back, resulting in those at the rear ending up several beats and a line behind - to the amusement of those of us in the middle, who could hear both ends, and at times sang somewhere in between the two. Other processions elsewhere might have been less homespun, and better choreographed, but we had joy, and exuberance, and hearts well and truly full of praise, loudly exalting the Lord our God. 

But then, within minutes of entering the church, still full of song and zest, the liturgy's mood quietened, became sombre, and plunged us straight into a reminder of the agonising, heart-rending journey to be taken by Jesus... And his invitation to me, to you, to accompany him over these days, filled with all the struggles and inconsistencies of our humanity, and the absolute, steadfast, unwavering and unconditional Love at the heart of it all. 

And around us, often sombre news of humanity's many highs and lows, especially of continued attacks on Ukraine and Gaza, alongside the normality of daily life, work and responsibilities. 

As always, I come to Holy Week all-too conscious of how unprepared I feel, and of the graces and opportunities I have resisted or missed throughout Lent. But Holy Week is a week like no other, filled with its own opportunities for transformation, intimacy and grace. And so yesterday I prepared my little prayer corner. The daffodils are a burst of jubilant, hosanna flowering which will have died by the Triduum. The donkeys are an old postcard, which I found whilst searching for something else: they speak to me of constancy, and humility - their own, and that of the incarnate God who chose one as his steed. And the little olive wood cross came from the Holy Land: the wood itself came from Bethlehem, where Love became flesh, while the cross speaks of Love's total self-giving, and absolute triumph over hatred and sin.

Yes; Holy Week is a week like no other - and may we all enter as deeply as possible into it, and into Jesus' invitation to journey as closely as we can with him. 

If you too feel that Lent has passed you by, then I offer you a reflection on Love's Victory from Heaven's archives. And you can read about the provenance of the little cross in this blog on the Caritas Westminster website. (And yes, a couple of the little gifts in the goody bag you can see in the photo were meant for me!)