When I was nine years old, my family was involved in the annual Passion Play and Easter Cantata at our local church.
My mother sang in the choir. Dad was Barabbas, the prisoner released in favor of crucifying Jesus (He accepted the role, I think, because Barabbas didn’t have to memorize any lines). My sister had a part as an ‘extra’ in the crowd scenes. My brother may have had a behind-the-scenes role. I honestly can’t recall.
But this is what I can remember. The Easter program was a very big deal. The production had demanded much rehearsal and investment during the winter months. The purpose of the event was to tell the story of Jesus and to depict the critical scenes of the Last Supper, Good Friday, and the Resurrection.
The part that I played in the production was also clear. I sat in the audience.
The production was divided into two parts. The first act was about Jesus’s life and ministry. The second act was the events of Holy Week. Anticipation for the crucifixion scene—which was to incorporate special effects to make Jesus’s death as realistic as possible—was palpable and tickets had to be claimed for each performance.
I loved the first act. As I sat midway back, on the left side of the auditorium, I marveled at the acting, the singing, the spotlights, and the well-staged storytelling. But there was a growing sense of dread that began to rise within me. Increasingly, as I watched the first act, I felt panicked and claustrophobic by the prospect of what was to come. I knew, you see, how the story would go. I did not want to watch them crucify Jesus.
I knew, of course, that they were only pretending. And yes, since I was a child of the 1970s and 80s, I had been exposed to a great deal of violence on TV and in the movies that I saw. None of this mattered. I did not want to see Jesus die.
So, I left.
At intermission I left the auditorium and elected to ‘help out’ in the nursery. One of my childhood friends even came and invited me to sit with his family. I refused. I did not want to see Jesus bathed in blood. And so, I didn’t.
Palm Sunday begins Holy Week in the Christian tradition. It is a week that is described in detail in the Gospel stories. We Christians remember Christ’s triumphant entry into Jerusalem on Sunday, but we also know that the accolades that Jesus receives are fleeting. Jesus becomes angry soon thereafter, stomping and yelling in the Temple. He tells apocalyptic stories to his followers and the crowds. They, in turn, get increasingly nervous. He makes statements that offend Rome. He makes statements that offend the Jews. His followers begin to look at him with suspicion and doubt. There is a discernable sense of dread at this point in the Gospel story, just as we might feel it with the dimming lights and creepy music of a scary movie. Holy Week is like that; it feels like something bad is about to happen.
Perhaps you remember the study that made headlines some years ago about 6th graders’ first experience with the opera. Many of us were surprised to learn that when 12-year-olds were taken to the opera, the emotion that they experienced wasn’t indifference, or even boredom. It was fear. The children were scared of the opera because of the intensity of the emotions that were on display.
Holy Week is not something that many of us look forward to each year. We don’t want to give our attention to a story that tells the truth about Jesus’s death. We don’t want to confront the suggestion that our own sinfulness makes us co-conspirators to his murder. Holy Week is a painful slog through betrayal, tear-jerking sacrifice, abandonment, and hopelessness. It is a journey into the worst of human nature. It is a corridor through a horror show where God is strung up and killed. What begins in light earlier in the week, ends in utter darkness. Holy Week finds us on death row accompanying a dead man walking.
So why can’t we just jump to Easter Sunday morning in all its glory, lilies, and proclamations of Hallelujah? Because the journey to redemption is through the valley of the shadow of death. Whether we’re nine years old or ninety, no one wants to walk that journey. But regardless of whether we want to or not, we will travel that road in life. Darkness, loss, grief, and death are inescapable realities in our world. But, and here’s the Good News, death does not win the day.
Holy Week and all its disappointments, sorrows, and terrors are the way to God’s victory over darkness. Although we may want to avoid this chapter in the story, the events of Holy Week describe the depths of God’s love for us. And besides, people: we know how the story ends.
Travel with a friend. Sit with a companion. Journey with Christ along the way. It’s the way to Easter Sunday morning.
Join us as we commemorate the Lord’s Supper on Maundy Thursday evening, April 18, in the Gathering Place room at 5:30 PM. We will hear the old, old story of Jesus and his love, and will share communion with our family of faith. Choose to gather with us for this intimate experience as we remember Jesus’ life, ministry, and commandments. Childcare will be provided.