Why Palm Sunday Made Me Cry

Tags

Catholic, forgiveness, Fr Mike Schmitz, Holy Thursday, Holy Week, Palm Sunday, Peter the Rock, The Chosen, Triduum

I’m pretty leaky lately.  I don’t know what it is.  Maybe it’s because in this third year of reading the bible (Bible In A Year podcast) and listening to some stellar homilies (Fr. Mike Schmitz), podcasts (Poco a Poco) and shows (The Chosen) my understanding has deepened a bit and granted me an awareness that sneaks up on me when I least expect it.  Like last weekend – Palm Sunday, to be exact. On Palm Sunday the readings are not only extra, they are rearranged. And with good reason – things are about to get dicey. We are entering Holy Week, a week that is both tumultuous and graceful. 

We started with the Gospel reading where Jesus enters Jerusalem on the donkey.  I closed my eyes and pictured him riding through the Sheep Gate with all the other lambs to be sacrificed for the Passover.  That gives me chills.  The simplicity. The dual meaning. The fulfillment. My eyes started watering and I chastised myself for not wearing waterproof mascara.  How had I not anticipated this, as moved as I am each and every time I listen to my favorite podcasted homily? (Check out Fr. Mike Schmitz’s series from 2022, Last Words.  Listen to the Palm Sunday one titled Last Words: Tetelestai. It will blow your mind.)

Minutes later, I was listening to the Passion narrative with my eyes closed. It’s a long narrative, and if you’re hearing it at a Catholic church, you’re gonna be standing there for a while.  Jesus institutes the Eucharist. He gives his disciples the cup that is not yet his to drink. He tells them the time is near.  One of them will betray him. Peter speaks up: Not me, Lord. I would never! Jesus foretells not one, but three betrayals that Peter himself – the chosen rock – will commit that very night. 

More tears slip beneath my lashes. What is wrong with me? This is not a part of the narrative that has ever stirred me before. I picture these chosen men in my mind. The men who would lead the Church. The men who, though chosen, were still just men. A thought niggles at the corner of my mind.  It isn’t the betrayal that makes this story powerful.  The story isn’t focused on the betrayal at all.  Is it?  

I pondered this thought the whole way home.  I continued to chew on it as I did laundry and prepared dinner. No, it isn’t the betrayal that makes this story a one-in-a-million life changing saga.  It’s the forgiveness.

If Jesus had reacted to his friend as one of us would react, the story would have gone more like this: he would first say something like, “I told you this would happen. But you just wouldn’t listen, would you? Well, thanks for nothing. I made you my rock and under the least pressure you crumbled like dust. I can’t believe I picked you, dude.  For real.  I don’t even want to look at you right now.  Just go.”  As painful as that would have been for Peter, it certainly wouldn’t have been remarkable. 

But he didn’t do that at all. Instead, he turned each betrayal into a new promise. “Do you love me? Feed my lambs… Do you love me? Tend my sheep… Do you love me? Feed my lambs.”  He didn’t expect Peter to be perfect – perfection was an impossibility for Peter, as it is for us. He was asking Peter to be faithful. I often have wondered if he repeated the “Feed my lambs” line because he knows our propensity to commit the same sins. For those same sins, God, who is true faithfulness, will always have the same answer. The forgiveness is what makes this story extraordinary. The forgiveness sets the story apart from all others, and it weaves itself into our own stories at the same time.

The forgiveness is what made me cry.

Did Peter deserve the forgiveness? Probably not. But Jesus gave it and changed the story.  Do I deserve the forgiveness? Definitely not. But Jesus gives it and changes my story, too.

While I am usually semi-competent at putting my thoughts into precise and communicative words, I am falling short on this one.  Perhaps I will be unpacking these thoughts more in the days and months to come. I’ll wrap this up for now, though, and wish you all a beautiful experience of the Triduum. 

May the peace and mercy of Christ be yours throughout this week and the Easter season.

A (Broken) Wing and a Prayer

Tags

Blessed Mother, blessings, broken arm, Catholic, prayer, Rosary

Sooooooo, my clumsiness has finally caught up with me.  Friday afternoon I was trying to sneak a birthday surprise for the Big Boss into the office so I opted to come in through a back door carrying a large box.  (Shhhhhhh…it’s still a surprise!) Unfortunately, trying to be sneaky means that I was also trying to hurry while flying under radar.  Mistake.  My mom can (and gladly will) attest to my lifelong lack of coordination.

Mickey held the door for me while I scurried in…and down.  Before I knew it, my foot had stopped but my body had not.  I stuck out my free arm (thankfully, the left) and instantly felt the impact of the cement through my wrist, up my arm, and into my elbow.  I rolled over, cursing myself for being so careless and wondering if I had broken my arm.  Then I instantly remembered how happy I had been, jumping and squealing in Jill’s office, just hours earlier when my appraisal on our house plans had come in.  Laying on my back in the stairwell, looking up alternately at the ceiling and Mickey, I vowed that despite my present condition this was STILL a good day.

There is so much more to this story than I can type with one hand: the chance circumstance that made Dom show up at my office just moments after my fall, Jill making me go to the hospital, the doctor sweetly telling me that she believes I broke my elbow, and then her personally escorting me to an orthopedic consult and explaining when we remarked on the exceptional level of service, “I saw that you work for the Diocese.  I figured that was the Holy Spirit telling me to take care of you.”

To me, that sounded like an answer to every prayer I could pray:  Don’t worry…I got this!

He’s had my back a lot lately.

I recently began a morning prayer exercise – the Rosary, to be specific – to offer all my intentions (“prayer requests”) and those of my family and friends.  I have two apps that I use during this time: a rosary app and a prayer list app so I can keep up with everything.  So, yes, I’m fiddling with my phone while I’m praying.  This morning my phone rang at 6:35 during the fourth decade of the Glorious Mysteries.  I growled a little at the interruption, saw that it was my son trying to FaceTime me from his iPod, and rationalized that I could take a tiny break and answer it.  I was behind closed doors, after all, to block out the morning noise.  And they all knew I was praying.  What gives??

The camera showed Aaron standing in the kitchen downstairs.  He was helpfully doling out everyone’s multi-vitamins.  “Hey, Mom.  Sorry to interrupt you.  Do you still need to take some Advil for your arm? I’ll set it out for you if so.”

Omigosh.

I shared this story with Mickey, who teared up and informed me that that was a hug from Mary.

I see the signs, but I am only human, so time and time again the message has to be reinforced for me.

He’s got this.