Palm Sunday is one of the hardest Sundays of the year to grasp. I get a sort of spiritual whiplash. We're hailing the Messiah and King, waving palm branches and singing, and suddenly, we are whisked at the speed of light to the foot of a cross, on which hangs a dead ?prophet?savior?anarchist?God?son?brother?friend? I find hope and comfort only in the Eucharistic prayers that follow.
Remembering the bad old undergraduate days at university, Palm Sunday reminds me of a sort of Cliff's Notes for Holy Week. Except that they leave me off at Holy Saturday. They don't quite get to volume two: "Early on the first day of the week..."
We're all waiting and watching, both in anticipation and dread.
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