Why is this night different from all other nights? Traditionally, the youngest child at the dinner table would ask this question as part of the Passover meal. This meal brought to remembrance the great acts of God for His people Israel, delivering them from slavery in Egypt so long ago. Rightly called the Passover, because the angel of the Lord passed over the homes of God’s people which were marked with the blood of a lamb. They were saved from the final plague that brought death over the land. So every year after, God’s people celebrated, ate and drank, remembered their gift of salvation.
Jesus rides into Jerusalem, the crowds go wild! How do we get from this exciting praise and gathering of crowds to his death on a lonely isolated cross only a short time later? Today is a time of worship that explores the spectrum of our emotions engaging in this great gospel story of Jesus Christ. In preparation for the Easter celebration coming up next week, take a minute to contemplate the journey from the Palms to the Cross.
She gripped the pink and yellow remains with both tiny hands. A little corner stuck out just above her thumb where she nervously bit to calm down. Ripping tearing thrashing by her own hand, the anxiety was too much to keep inside. That faded fabric barley covered her trembling body. But the routine of it all comforted her. The familiar weight of embrace relaxed her tension. The panic that attacks eventually loosened its hands from inside her throat. She could breathe again.
A wet, warm breeze blew the last of the raindrops across the sky. After an hour of drizzling darkness, the clouds began to glow a shade lighter. Even though the sound of the rushing drains fooled my mind into thinking it was still raining, my dry cheeks informed me differently. The thunderstorm was over, and the blue sky began to push through the grey. It was just after 4 pm and I knew it was time. The hunt was on.
It is a most pleasurable and painful need of His image: To speak, to sing, to form, to make. Our hands were sculpted to press a moldless form into beauty. Our eyes were crafted to dream color into a dark grey vision. Our lips were shaped to taste the ever-sweeter sensations that we could conceive. We were fearfully and wonderfully designed to create like the Creator.
It’s nothing new, we all have felt the war between what we know is true from the words of God and what the culture says is good and right. Most of the time though it doesn’t affect us directly, usually it is just those other people out there doing something we totally disapprove of. But every once in a while, this battle starts stirring in our own home, among the people we love, even right in the eyes of the little people we’ve known from their first breath.
Diving into the great sea of knowledge, I am drowning. Wave after wave of fact and fiction, feeling and experience crash over my head as I fight just to take a breath. Pummeling pressure keeps my eyes just below the surface, so that I can’t quite see clearly. Swell after swell, small and distant, grows deeper and more powerful the closer it gets to me. Endless fathoms of knowledge washing in and out, burying me deep below understanding.