I consider the episode of Jesus' life that is rehearsed on Palm Sunday to be, perhaps, the single most ironic episode in history. The idea of putting myself there, in the story, among the first century masses, and chiming along with them words of praise to the long-awaited Messiah elicits a myriad of tense thoughts. I agree with the shouts of Hosanna, yet I wonder why I would want to mimic such a tragically fickle mob with overblown zeal and under-developed discernment. Mostly, I try not to recognize the self-same enthusiasm and lip-service as a regular component of my own soul's response to the Christ. In some ways, psychologically, Palm Sunday hurts more than Good Friday.
In less epic scales of irony, I've become wholly convinced that my life with minimal internet interaction is a more glorious path towards humanity. I'm pretty sure pulmones may be hosting it's final days, because the other alternative is to blog so infrequently that no one is left to read (already happened?). I'm thinking more about writing some kind of monthly or bi-monthly e-letter with life updates and any artistic noodling I can evoke instead.
Finally, I leave these excerpts from
Jesus and the Victory of God by N.T. Wright. I'm scouring through this mega-theology book as part of my Lenten contemplation. These words are wrought with encouragement, irony, and potential danger:
Jesus, like the founder(s) of the Essenes, and like John the Baptist, apparently envisaged that, scattered about Palestine, there would be small groups of people loyal to himself, who would get together to encourage one another, and would act as members of a family, sharing some sort of common life and, in particular, exercising mutual forgiveness. It was because this way of life was what it was, while reflecting the theology it did, that Jesus' whole movement was thoroughly, and dangerously, 'political.'
