We gather to pray, just a handful of us, at 7 a.m., in a prayer room, at church, during Holy Week.
Baptists, being a part of the Protestant faith, aren’t sure what to with Holy Week. We know there’s something special about it, but many aren’t sure if they should acknowledge it, participate in it, or ignore it, sliding through the week, until, suddenly, it’s Easter. We find no commands in Scripture about observing it; no words about obligation. And yet, so much of the New Testaments’ gospel accounts is devoted to this last week in Jesus’ life on earth.
It’s as if we look at the events of the week, glance at each other, and ask, “Should I stay or should I go?”
We wonder.
Even if you’ve devoted yourself for years to the observance of this week—been to Maundy Thursday services since you were knee high to a grasshopper, sat through more Good Friday worship services than you can remember—even then, perhaps you still wonder: “Why?”
Our prayer group chats for a few moments, reflects on what Jesus did this day of this week we now call “Holy.” Ours is an intimate time: meditative silence, a few pray aloud. We listen. And wait. And then, as we leave, talk about our plans for the day.
And I wonder if that’s what Jesus did with his disciples, those mornings the last week of his earthly life. Did he arise early after resting each night, maybe in the home of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus? Did they and the twelve sit down with him, cross-legged on the dirt floor, chat for a few moments, and pray?
Maybe Jesus then taught them, preparing them for what was ahead that week. I wonder, as they made their way along the road, if Jesus went over the tentative plan for the day. “First, we’ll head back to Jerusalem, go the temple, then I’ll teach whoever is there, and then…”
And I’m sure the disciples would have gotten the part about the “to do list,” but beyond that, apparently, they were a lot like us, “Now, why are we doing this? Isn’t this a bit risky? Should I stay or should I go?”
Something about this week is important: we sense it. It’s in the air, even if we can’t quite explain it. The mystery is part of the event: a reality the depth of which we can never fully comprehend or exhaust.
We pray; we wait; we talk about what’s planned for this week: “Let’s see: ball game on Wednesday, can I make it there after prayer meeting? Maundy Thursday service—okay, Good Friday, office closed, but meet for prayer…”
In all the doing, hopefully, we are anticipating Jesus, as he invites us into his story: the story of his holiness, a holiness and righteousness that, because of the Cross, he shares with us. His story can wrap itself around our story, for it’s the story of our redemption, our escape from meaninglessness, from bondage to ourselves, from a life of futility. It’s the story that seems too good to believe.
And so, most don’t.
You see, he doesn’t just plunk his story into our story. He is, after all, a gentleman: he won’t intrude into our lives; he won’t push and kick us, hog-tying us into a relationship with him.
Instead, he shows us what true love is, displaying it through the events of this week, and most ultimately, on the Cross, where his pain was not only physical, but spiritual, for he took from us every bad thing we’ve ever done so that we can live just as if we hadn’t.
The late Billy Graham put it like this: “God proved His love on the Cross. When Christ hung, and bled, and died, it was God saying to the world, ‘I love you.’”
With a love like that, how can we resist?
This week, you can stay.
Or, you can go.
But I’m hoping you stay.