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Palm Sunday

It has always boggled my mind, the utter manic-depressive nature of Palm Sunday.  I mean you start out and it’s all ‘Hay-sanna, ho-sanna, sanna, sanna-ho-sanna hey-sanna ho-sanna!’ and by the end, God is dead.  And then, if you’re particularly religious or thusly inclinded, liturgically speaking, you have to relive the horror for the entire next week.  Why?  Because Palm Sunday is like the Reader’s Digest Condensed Version for those who can’t be bothered to go church during the Triduum: Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday.  Some people attend something every day in Holy Week.

On Thursday, we’re either celebrating faux-passover, or we’re washing feet.  (This year: washing feet.  Hence the Celebrate Life/Maundy Thursday pedicure.  Faux-passover, because we are not, in fact, Jewish.)

On Friday, we’re stripping the altar and living into the pathos and utter emo angst of accidentally killing God.  (Oops.  But on the up, it’s the only day of the year I get to liturgically go goth.  Sadly, I don’t love my cassock.)

On Saturday, we’re waiting, preparing.  Except I’ll be waiting at home, preparing for house guests.

And… then comes the resurrection.  The Light of Christ.  (Thanks be to God.)  Will I be chanting, I haven’t decided.

And don’t you know, it’s also the one week of the year I don’t have to write a sermon.  This naturally means that I finished it earlier today.  It’s here, and since I’m not going to get to preach it, I really think you ought to go read it.  Imagine my voice, ranting it.  I don’t usually rant from the pulpit, but about half way through the blogpost, I think I started…

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