This morning before Mass, I stopped for a moment while walking along College Street, enroute to Victoria Park. In and among cars, ambulances, and other urban groanings, the distinctly percussive Rubbee-dedubbeedee-dub….rubbee-dedubbeedee-dub. There was a woodpecker somewhere nearby. After winter’s dormancy, crocuses are stretching their blooms over by the cemetery and I understood why when I looked up into the softest stretch of sky…a gentle blue with a gauzy shawl of clouds tossed across her shoulders. Who or what would not want to be a part of that? Coming home by the near edge of the park, I crossed in front of the Anglican cathedral just as the choir was leading the congregation in their outdoor Palm Sunday procession…it was an absolute delight, a rising swell of music and worship that touched me deeply to behold.
This was my entry into the week that is ahead… a week lived in the shadow of the Cross and in the certainty of faith in Resurrection. In some respects, a week not unlike other weeks, as the Cross is always present where True Good abides and the roiling waters of evil, injustice, cynicism, and doom do all that they can to saturate and render useless the wick of hope. And, faith in the Resurrection gives me freedom to say Yes, each morning, every week. The liturgies and prayers of this week, though…they tell the Story in an intensified way, calling us together anew, re-membering the table of friends who gather to remind each other what this symbol of suffering has become… a call to Love. Love, with all of its implications and intricacies. Love, wholly, completely, without reservation. Love. Inclusive, expansive, challenging, costly, and to the end.
A call to love as Jesus loved.