Holy Week

I heard this quote in a movie, "the difference between fiction and truth is fiction has to make sense." 

I am not a particularly inquisitive person.  I take things at face value.  I believe what people say.  I accept explanations.  People can say they are going to do something and don't, over and over, and every time I believe they will.   I have never been one to doubt the story of Jesus.  I have never been particularly concerned with discrepancies between Biblical explanations and laws of nature i.e. Jonah living in a whale's belly for 3 days.  I take neither blame nor credit for my belief process.  It is what it is. 

It took a minister, young enough to be my son, to help me see the truth of that movie quote in the Jesus story.   When one considers the upside-downness of Jesus as King, it has to be believed.  Who would make that up, and for what purpose?  Of course, people misuse the Bible to prove points and to make others tow the line.  But, what that young minister has helped me to understand is if one were going to make up a story about a king that saves the world, Jesus would definitely not be it.  Oh, I have heard all the explanations about birth in a manger, born to a virgin, and humble lifestyle.  I get that crucifixion between two thieves is not how one would expect a king's life to end.  This storyline is not going to sell books, nor will it be the stuff of Hollywood movies.  Of course, that is the point.

Of all the events in Jesus's life that tell me that truth does not have to make sense, it is what is called the Triumphal Entry, which we celebrate on Palm Sunday.  It is the grand coronation of understatement.  Who would boast of a king who rides into town on a donkey?  Where is his chariot?  But, this week that many of us call Holy Week, began just that way.  So, perhaps, more than most weeks, I find myself more aware of those events that I believe took place over 2,000 years ago.  What would be the point in the telling of such an ignominious opening act of a story so preposterous? 

I have been more aware this week of the people around me, wondering if this week is of any particular importance to them.  Each morning, I sit on the steps of Downtown Presbyterian Church awaiting the school group with which I will spend the next 3 hours or so.  I sit and I people watch.  I see the tall,  young man striding with great purpose, his legs as thin as the umbrella he carries.  I notice the residents of downtown walking dogs, and I see a particular gentleman, perhaps homeless, who loves to speak to those pets.  He hasn't much time for the owners, but the dogs entertain him. 

Yesterday, I saw the woman in the wheelchair who is missing both legs from below her knees.  Several years ago, I offered to help her as she struggled up the hill.  When I asked if I could help, she screamed at me, "drop dead."  To say I was taken aback would be a gross understatement, so I persisted in explaining my well-meaning in offering to help her, to which she replied, "I said, would you just drop dead!"  After two or three other attempts to assure her that I meant no harm and each time her instructions were for me to expire on the spot, I walked away.  I am not proud, but my first thought was, "lady, I could tip you over in that wheelchair on this hill, and there is nothing you can do about it."  Rather quickly, however, my thoughts were kinder as I considered that I had not a clue of what harm life had caused her, and why telling someone to drop dead seemed a perfectly reasonable response to an offer for assistance.

I meat a young German man this week.  I was walking to my car.  He asked me for directions to Music Row.  Bless him.  I figured there was some other reason he was sent to talk to me.  A lamp post could have given better directions.  But, we chatted.  He was telling me about how Nashville reminded him of home.  He is from Cologne.  He has been accepted into a music program about which he is most excited.  My family might have been skeptical since he had no German accent and no musical instrument.  I don't care.  I found him delightful.  He told me I was "cool."  Trust me, I don't get that very often.  I think he was just happy to have someone to talk to him.  Hope he found Music Row.  Perhaps, someone else refined the directions I gave him.  Entertaining angels, unawares?  Maybe.

From my seat on the porch of Downtown Pres, I I see a Contributor vendor, who faithfully stands on the corner of 5th and Church.  Many people pass without making eye contact.  Many stop to chat.  Some buy a paper.  I bought mine on Monday from the vendor at 16th and Wedgewood. We had quite the chat as I sat in my car and he shouted to me over the traffic.  He wants to write a food critic's column in The Contributor.  The food critic for the Tennessean has offered to help him with his words.  He watches Chef Ramsey, and knows what to look for in a restaurant.  I am sure he does.  I only hope that those who own restaurants will treat him with dignity, and offer him their best. 

When I walk through the fellowship hall at the church, I see photographs taken by formerly homeless artists.  The pictures were all taken with disposable cameras.  Some of them are, in my humble opinion, spectacular.  They are proof that a fancy camera is not necessary for good shots, but rather an eye for the beautiful.  There is one with a pink sofa sitting in the midst of overgrowth.  It is an outdoor livingroom.  I imagine those who frequent the spot have a greater understanding of that humble king, riding into town on a donkey, than many of us who drive fancy, new cars and rest upon sofas in air-conditioned homes watching TV.

So, during this Holy Week, I contemplate what it means to be holy.  I am struck by how miserably I fail, and how faithfully I am loved.  I believe this story helps me find purpose in my life.  I believe this story helps me understand the importance of relationship above stuff.  It is this story that prods me to beware of placing myself above others.  It is this story that encourages me to stop with the "navel gazing," and look up and see the face of Jesus in all I meet.  Oh, there are 51 other weeks in the year that do not bear the name, "Holy Week."  Oh, that I could find the holy in every week. 

So, as you approach Easter, may you find holiness in yourself, in this beautiful world, in the love of friends and family, in the faces of strangers, and may you find truth in the story of

holy blessing