Holy Week...to me! (Part 1)

Mar 31
2 min read

I dreaded writing this piece, though I felt the nudge to write about Holy Week. How does one speak of the Word made flesh? No descriptor feels strong enough. No words feel right. So I decided the best I could do was write from the heart—and hope it lands.

So, there we go.

I was disgusting—filthy, gross beyond recognition—and worse, I enjoyed it.

I was lost. You knew it. I knew it. Yet the filth didn’t bother me; the pigpen enticed me. I yearned for it. The wind of the world shredded my skin, pierced my heart, stripped away my anointing—and still, I walked my bleeding self back to its door, day after day, like it was my drug.

I was high on disillusionment. The greater the demand on my depleted soul, the more I begged to stay. The truth is, I loved it. Depravity called my name, and I answered cheerfully. I joined the chorus when they ridiculed Yours. It felt good. I felt alive.

I feasted among the dead. I drank from their cup. Rags became my favorite garments. The tomb felt like home. I embraced sin and danced with death all my days.

You sounded the clarion call, but I had learned to silence Your voice. I was too deep. I had gone too far. Your terms felt too demanding—too boring. In fact, I liked where I was.

The river within me had long dried up. I didn’t like the deep; I preferred the comfort of the shallow. So I drenched my conscience in folly. I silenced my fear with the crowd. I suffocated my purpose—on purpose.

Marah became the name misery gave me, and I wore it. I made a nameplate for it.

I was destined for the grave. But since to live felt like death, I convinced myself that to die must be a gain. I was caught in a loop that never stopped. I couldn’t quiet the voices.

Go deeper, they shouted.

One last time, they whispered.

Still inebriated by yesterday’s frenzy, I dove headfirst into chaos. Oh, the things I did for those fleeting moments of pleasure—only to realize, again and again, it was all illusion. My senses failed me. I was trapped in a drunken state, numb to the pain.

Then I heard footsteps.

Faint at first. Distant. Drawing nearer with every passing moment. A steady rhythm pressing against the noise in my head.

So I looked up—And I saw Him.

Walking steadfast toward me. Not hurried. Not angry. Not hesitant. Each step is deliberate. Certain.

“Where are you, daughter?” His voice called.

I hid.

I hid because I knew He must have mistaken me for someone else. The weight of my past hung heavy on my shoulders. My filth did not belong in His presence. I begged Him to go away. My mess felt exposed in His light.

I was ashamed.

After all, I was disgusting—filthy, beyond recognition—and now, it finally bothered me.

He pointed beyond me to a distant moment in time. I squinted to see—