This is how to begin Holy Week: take one step toward Jerusalem, very carefully look for a Galilean whose face is set like flint and who holds in hand a trampled palm frond.
On Monday, be brave and ask him where he is headed.
On Tuesday, offer him your pillow, because for three years, his head has rested on a stone each night.
On Wednesday, do not say a word. Do not try to talk him out of where he is going. Cry for yourself and all that is irretrievably lost in the world. Then smell your favorite perfume or cologne and pretend you have anointed him for his burial even while he was taking bread from a leper’s hand.
On Thursday, drink wine and rejoice in the presence of the Galilean and then look at it and think, this looks like blood. Sing a hymn. Worship with others if you can so you are not alone in the night, as he prays over there in the garden alone.
On Friday. On Friday. On Friday. Hammer a nail into a tree. In the evening of the Sabbath, weep because we killed the Son of God.
Saturday, find some holy place in order to ponder how it is that humans always name holy ground after the most unholy things possible, like battle fields, cemeteries, and a hill of skulls called Calvary.
On Sunday, when the sun dances along the edge of the horizon and birds sing doxologies worthy of Mozart, put on fresh clothes and run to a holy place, so you can hear the news that Magdalene proclaimed first . . . so you can hear the words that Magdalene proclaimed … so you can hear.
Pray this all week long. Christ have mercy. Lord, have mercy.
In the Name of Christ let us walk now, bravely, fully, into Holy Week. I will see you on the other side of Friday. Sunday is coming.