Holy Week at the Hub

This Holy Week has been unlike any I have yet experienced in my life and the grand finale hasn’t even taken place yet. While we didn’t visit the Holy Land, the amount of spiritual learning and in-depth attention that was given each day to the life of Jesus in his last week on earth was an experience I hope to savor and cherish for a long time. Palm Sunday began with a typical service at our local church. Worship was uplifting, the guest speaker shared a funny story about having faith like a donkey and then followed it up with a strong testimony about his valley through the shadow of death with cancer and then how God delivered him after he was obedient to follow Him in faith. There were no palm branches, no story of Jesus’ entry to Jerusalem, no angry religious leaders, no analysis of Jesus’ tears or interesting explanation of why the donkey’s owners were ok with the disciples just taking their animal because their boss said it was ok.

When I was growing up, Palm Sunday was fun because we would parade around the sanctuary as kids with giant palm branches taller than we were and join the grownups for worship before heading off into our classes. I remember that sanctuary which still stands in the Oakland hills today, and I wonder if the kids still wave branches in remembrance of Jesus’ triumphal entry.

At the Hub we held our own service in the chapel at four in the afternoon. All of the kids attended and sat on blankets and pillows at the front of the room as the story of Palm Sunday was read and explained. We sang songs and then the kids dramatized Jesus’ triumphal entry: religious leaders, donkey, crowds of praising Israelites and all. Instead of Palm branches, they used giant leaves that looked like banana leaves (but I have been informed that these are NOT banana leaves). My children were the angry religious leaders because they loved being able to point their fingers, make angry faces and shake their heads in disapproval. Hayden-Jesus rode (rugby player) Micah, who was of course, the donkey. “Lord please bless that young man’s knees” I prayed as he carried Hayden on his back into the chapel without falter. All the other kids waved branches and placed chitenges (yardage of patterned African fabric) on the way for Micah to crawl over. My children shook their heads and the other children cheered and shouted “Hosanna!” It was sweet, memorable, simple and delightful.

The rest of the week was less pleasant. Every morning we would meet in the village with the rest of the Hub community (and the youth discipleship camp which was also being hosted on campus this week). Each day a different small group was responsible for presenting the story of the day that correlated to Jesus’ last week leading up to the cross. Our group was first: Monday. We presented Jesus entering the tabernacle and overturning the tables, angry that his house was being used for extortion and not its intended purpose of prayer. I don’t know how many times I had read this story and thought that those religious leaders were just such greedy meanies who really had it coming, but this year for the first time I saw something radically different. This year I saw the week of Jesus’ life as the story of my relationship with him. It all began with my declaration of Jesus as the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords, the master of my life, the king of my Jerusalem, God of my temple. It’s exciting: everyone else is either in agreement and cheering with me or pointing their fingers and telling me and my king that we’re evil and need to stop now. But then came Monday. On Monday Jesus came into the temple and, after having been given the right of kingship, he appropriately starts to get rid of things that don’t belong. He overturns tables and (seemingly) valuable things come crashing down and breaking on the floor. It’s loud. It’s destructive. It feels wrong, but I just gave him the right of Lordship over my life right? For the first time I’m seeing myself as the temple. Why not? Paul writes to the Corinthians at least twice reminding us that we are the temple of God:

1 Corinithians 3:16 “Don’t you know that you yourselves are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in your midst?”

1 Corinthians 6:19-20 "Don't you know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, who lives in you and who was given to you by God? You do not belong to yourselves but to God;  he bought you for a price. So use your bodies for God's glory."

What did Jesus say as he was “destroying” that which had been accepted practice in the temple?

He said, “It is written (in the book of Isaiah), ‘My house shall be a house of prayer,’ but you have made it a den of robbers.” (Luke 19:48)

His intention is good, and his actions are… perfect? Did Jesus sin when he made a mess of the temple? Nope. Jesus re-established his authority in the temple even though the temple was designed for him in the first place. He was welcomed into Jerusalem as king and now he was acting like the king, but not in the way that everyone expected. When I invited Jesus into my life, I’m not sure what I expected to happen just as I’m sure the Jewish people weren’t exactly sure of Jesus’ plans. But after declaring him king, I’m pretty sure that neither of us expected him to go into our most special place of worship and make a big mess.

It’s clear to see what Jesus did in the temple that day was uncomfortable and upset a lot of people. I think it’s fair to say that when Jesus entered my life I wanted to ride on the coattails of his glory even as a little kid and just enjoy watching the fun gifts that followed in the wake of his miracles. But Jesus is not Santa and Jesus does not want to give us gifts just because we’ve made it onto the nice list this year. Jesus wants us to enjoy his gifts because they bring glory to himself. Our joy in his gifts ought to draw us into awe and wonder at their maker. Our pleasure in his gifts ought to lead us to quick thanksgiving and then a flow of steady gratitude for their multitude and their reflection of his goodness, amazing character, and very intentional design. Catechism reminds us that the main purpose of living is to enjoy and glorify God. If God created us to be a house of prayer, a temple of communicating with him, beings of relationship with him, then it makes perfect sense that he would go in and get rid of anything that gets in the way of that original and perfect plan. We’re the ones who have made a mess. He’s acting like a mother who comes in to help clean her child’s room, but her help is unwelcome because the child likes the mess, they don’t want to help clean, and they’re afraid things they thought they loved might get thrown away. The mother doesn’t clean the room because she hates her children. The mother cleans the room because she intended it to be a place for them to enjoy, to play, to live, to grow and thrive in safety (without stepping on Legos). The Father too sent Jesus to come clean house, to restore right relationship, to bring us back to enjoying the gifts of relationship with Him that were lost or misplaced in the mess. I was reminded of the idols that I love more than him, ones that appear good on the outside and can definitely be used for his glory if they’re put after and not before Him. My idols of comfort, productivity, pleasure, pride (when it’s not in what he’s done) all fall off the table when Jesus comes to the temple. That was Monday.

Tuesday and Wednesday reviewed some of Jesus’ teachings and again I found myself in a different place in the stories. I am the tenant that misuses the farm and thinks that the land is mine and that if I kill the owner’s son that I could somehow gain ownership of what was never mine. Every day of Holy Week was a reminder of my sinfulness, my flawed thinking, my inability to do the right thing on my own without help. I saw myself in the disciples as they argued about which one is the greatest in the kingdom of God, even after years of listening to, and being close to, Jesus.

Thursday arrived quickly and was remembered through a shared meal with our small groups to reflect on The Last Supper. After sharing breakfast together and communion, our groups went down to the camp youth and washed their feet like Jesus did. We prayed for them and blessed them.

Later in the afternoon a small inflatable pool was filled with water and 16 of the teenagers from camp decided to be baptized that day.

While the camaraderie of the week was delightful, with sharing in worship, reflection, prayer and study, it was difficult. On a physical and emotional level it was exhausting. Eric had left with a team for Eswatini at the beginning of the week on Sunday and had just returned Thursday evening. I stayed home with the kids (who were also home from school for the week) and worked. On a spiritual level it was full of conviction, potent and important reminders of my sinfulness, my brokenness, my insufficiency and my need for help. The reminders made me long for Sunday, made me constantly look forward to the hope that comes with Jesus returning to life after paying for what I’ve done. My actions tend to separate myself from God and with every step away it became harder and more impossible to turn back to him on my own.

Whoever was in charge of presenting the Garden of Gethsemane did a phenomenal job. After the sun had long set, our kids had bathed, brushed, and donned pajamas, we grabbed the solar lights that Matt and Dianna had given us and headed out of the house. We walked down the hill in the dark to a beautiful rocky area of the property in the trees. There were four stations of chitenges spread out and surrounded by candles. At each station were papers printed with excerpts of Jesus’ night of prayer and anguish in Gethsemane. His prayers prompted more reflection and invited us to more prayer for ourselves, for the communities we serve, for our friends and family, for you. Beth loved the stations so much she persuaded us to let her go through them a second time in lieu of story and prayer time back at the house. It was a special time as a family. Unique. Sacred.

Good Friday is a holiday in the country of South Africa. Didn’t know, now we know. In the town of White River where the kids go to school, we grocery shop and go to church, there is an annual Good Friday service that takes place at the White River Primary school on their sports field. All of the churches in the town are invited to come together to celebrate Good Friday. Half of the service is in English, the other in Afrikaans, alternating between the two throughout. The service was such an expression of unity, hope and freedom. Unity of the different churches from different denominations coming together to worship, hope in who we’d all come to worship, and freedom in the ability to do so without any persecution or fear. Such a gift and privilege to get to see and participate. At the end, the kids were invited to come down onto the field and follow a leader in some interpretive moves to a worship song.

After the service we bought a batch of pancakes, because like the brand new parents that we are, we didn’t bring snacks, or more accurately the snacks we brought were left in the car a long long ways away. Now, for the record, I do not like fluffy pancakes. My Swedish Grandfather taught me to enjoy very flat pancakes drenched in butter and maple syrup. The rest of my family prefers fluffy fat pancakes. Meh. However, South Africa has helped our family to unite over the love of what they call pancakes. We agree that these are not pancakes, but crepes rolled in cinnamon and sugar. If a cinnamon roll and a crepe had offspring, this is what they would taste like. This is my favorite food of South Africa. They are sugary, moist carbs that don’t come in a box so they have no nutrition facts. They are so delicious they must be fiction. For 35 cents each we enjoyed our new favorite treat. And then as if our teeth had not rotted enough, on the way out (apparently we took a very long time to leave) the coffee/drink cart was closing up and offered our kids the rest of the milkshakes they had for free so they wouldn’t have to dump them out. Talk about undeserved and spoiled with sugary goodness.

Today, Saturday, I went for a run in town with a couple other moms, then we took the kids on a hike about an hour’s drive away. The hike was gorgeous, nostalgically foggy, and Tali exhibited newfound calm and joy throughout the hike that lead my Mama heart to great rejoicing and thanksgiving. Thank you for those who have prayed for her homesickness. We have seen miraculous transformation in her countenance. She still misses home very very much and will talk about Alameda almost, if not every day, but now it’s a longing that’s not filled with tears but with fondness, anticipation, and hope that doesn’t cripple her ability to be present in time and space. The difference is amazing.

Tomorrow morning (Sunday), Hub community will meet at George and Carolyn’s house at the top of the hill to watch the sunrise. We will sing, pray, celebrate Jesus’ resurrection, and then eat hot cross buns together. Have you ever had hot cross buns? They are yet another delicious pastry my grandfather taught me to appreciate as a kiddo. Here you can get a half dozen at the store for a dollar, still warm from the oven. They’re the softness and size of Kings’ hawaiian rolls (which are not sold here) but they have cinnamon and some other spices in them. Some of them have dried fruit in them like Italian pannetone or are stuffed with a custard paste. Regardless of their ingredients, they stand apart with their white crosses marked across the top of each roll and they are so, so yummy! Can’t wait! I already feel like a kid counting down the hours to the excitement like Christmas morning. Jesus is alive!

Extras:

Tali cracked open a tiny egg that had be left for a few weeks after the shells of it's nest mates had long gone and discovered the new life of a lizard. Some ants here are the size of my toe, and black ants bite too. This is how we make popcorn here, and a monkey near our chapel munching on some marula.