So, today is Monday in Holy Week, otherwise known as the day after Palm Sunday, the day after Jesus rode into Jerusalem amid much fanfare, waving palms, cheering people.
I saw a facebook update from a friend today, "Welcome, week that is Holy." This immediately caused me to think, "as opposed to all the other weeks, which are NOT Holy."
No, this is called Holy Week, the week we Journey to the Cross. But every other week is Holy, too. Every ordinary week, every week of doing the dishes and taking out the garbage and going to work and wondering what it all means is Holy. Every week of watching the news and seeing tsunamis and wars in Libya and in Afghanistan, every week of watching homeless people struggle for dignity, every week of turning away from suffering (or turning toward it), every week is Holy, not just this one.
Some churches have an opportunity to worship each day of Holy Week. It's a reminder of the Holiness of this week, the Holiness of every week. It's a reminder that Jesus inhabits every week, every day, the ordinary ones, the heroic ones, the tragic ones. We don't see it, mostly.
Today didn't seem like 'Monday in Holy Week' to me, at least not most of the time.
What did I do? How did I spend the time?
I tried to get a day off, but kept thinking about Good Friday, the man of sorrows, who bore our sins. I finished a book while waiting for my mother-in-law to get done with her appointment at the doctor's office. I went shopping for groceries, got a couple of birthday cards, wiped off the kitchen cupboards. Ordinary things.
I listened to music, and prayed to hear it.
Monday in Holy Week.
Where did I see Jesus?
I think I caught of glimpse of him, with a walker, and two bags of groceries. Or perhaps I heard his voice in a note of the music. Perhaps.
The old gospel song tells us "turn your eyes upon Jesus." But I confess that I only catch fleeting glimpses of him, and sometimes I have to look away.
When I do, I know he is still looking at me. He is looking at us. With love.
That's why they call it, "Holy Week."
"A bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench."