Palm Sunday

Today is the start of Holy Week, Palm Sunday. As I was sitting in church and listening to the message, this chapter from my book, The Untold Story of the Darkest Days, hit me. May you have a blessed Holy Week and may you see the sacrifice made for you in a different way.

Chapter 42

Mary Magdalene

“I’ll help you,” I said as Mary looked up, eyes swollen from the many tears she had cried tonight.

“I know,” she said as she stood up to greet me with a hug. “I know, dear.”

I didn’t know what it was, but as she hugged me all my strength fell away. I was like a glass orb colliding with the hard ground, breaking into millions of glass shards – each one too small to see with the naked eye.

I was breaking from the memory of being held against my will only minutes earlier as Barabbas spoke death into my ears like it was nothing. But now, I was being held with love as she whispered words of life.

I was crumbling with the realization that Peter saw me as nothing more than a woman he could command. But now, I was being spoken to with affirmation and respect.

I was falling apart with the notion that the last three years of Jesus’ words of love and forgiveness were being washed away with the tides from the Sea of Vengeance. But now, I was being comforted with the love I so dearly wanted to see through the night.

I was eroding with the realization that the world I knew last week was gone. Her embrace couldn’t erase the memory of events from earlier this week.

Jesus had been welcomed into Jerusalem with open arms by a large crowd who had been following him, listening to his teachings. When they heard he was coming, they immediately took their palm branches to greet him.

“Hosanna!” they had yelled in honor as Jesus came by riding a donkey’s colt. “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, even the King of Israel!”

I had stood amazed among the crowd. I couldn’t believe my eyes and ears with the reception he was getting. But my heart had been enthralled, as though it was going to explode with the excitement in the air. I had always loved Passover with all of its symbolism and promise – God would always provide. But this Passover I knew was going to be different. This one was going to be one I would never forget.

As a young girl, I had hated the idea of my father sacrificing a precious lamb. He would bring the lamb home, but I could never look at it because I knew if I looked I would feel shame for the lamb having to shed its blood for my sins.

“Mary,” he would say in a tender voice, “look at the lamb.”

But I couldn’t. I would just shake my head with my eyes closed. I couldn’t look at the innocent creature making the baaing sounds that would make me laugh on any other occasion. But during the week of Passover, the baaing didn’t make me smile. It made me tear up.

Jesus had waved to the people, touching those approaching him and speaking words of love and hope, just as he did every other day of his life. This wasn’t a political move or an act. I had seen him live what he taught. He was genuine.

As Jesus had come into town, I knew my father was on the other side of the city getting the lamb for the family as they were being herded into the city for their preparations. As Jesus came by on the donkey, he’d looked into my eyes and I distinctly heard my father’s voice as if he was standing next to me.

“Mary, look at the lamb.”

I didn’t know then why my father’s voice and memory surfaced during Jesus’ triumphal entry. But I knew now.

As Jesus was hanging on the cross, I kept hearing my father’s voice. I didn’t want to listen, but it kept repeating the haunting words of my childhood until it became deafening. I just wanted the words to stop. I wanted everything to stop.

“Mary, look at the lamb, dear. Please Mary, the lamb is dying for you,” my father said softly one last time.

I looked up.

“Just let it out, dear,” Mary said as she continued to rock me in her arms. “Just let it out.” As I cried on her shoulder I noticed she wasn’t crying. That was a sign of a true mother, to muster up strength for moments like this.

We rocked each other in our arms until we couldn’t rock anymore and fell asleep.

If you found this chapter interesting, check out the book.

Peace