Today was Palm Sunday. One year ago, this was The Countdown. On this day, a year ago, I began the one week countdown to acceptance into full communion with the Catholic church and Confirmation. As was said in church, this evening, this entire week is in essence one liturgy: we enter on Palm Sunday, we experience the first reading on Holy Thursday, we keep vigil with prayers as though psalms, we experience the second reading on Good Friday, then on Easter Sunday we celebrate the consecration of the Host and are sent forth.
[The next day]
It was interesting. I have felt a certain desolation of the soul in the past while growing. Yesterday it reached a certain clarity: it was a desolation tied to the journey which we follow. Palm Sunday is one of the most ironic days of the year, to me. And in a most painful way. Here we are waving our palms and celebrating the triumphant entrance of Jesus into the holy city, and in a few days we will torture and kill him. These palms are the nails of guilt, piercing the flesh. How appropriate that we should fold them into crosses which redeem their nature which drives our hopeless guilt and shame into our hearts. Instead, in this new form, their message is reformed to one naming our guilt and speaking forgiveness.
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