Swearing off the Donald for a season

On Sunday, the season of Spring arrived with the vernal equinox. Sunday also marked the beginning of the Christian Holy Week, the annual commemoration of Jesus' provocative parade into Jerusalem led by palm waving enthusiasts, his last admonitions and meal with his friends, his trial for insubordination by local and imperial authorities, his gruesome execution and burial, and then, the empty tomb. For liturgical Christians, there is no more awesome season of the year. (Yes, Easter is way bigger than Christmas!)

I love the seasonality of liturgical Christianity -- the annual repetition of the stories through which we encounter mystery and our fraught humanity.

In celebration of this year's Holy Week, I'm declaring this blog a Donald Trump-free zone at least until after next Sunday, until after Easter. It is certainly not that I think politics can somehow be divorced from our enduring stories. Politics is a vital and honorable aspect of how we live out our humanity. But I don't want this year's electoral horror show to become a devouring obsession. We'll repudiate this racist demagoguery in our own good time. Meanwhile, I'll relish a week with other concerns.***
We sang this poetic rendering of the Jesus story in church yesterday. Audio version here. The author was an English clergyman, Samuel Crossman, writing in 1664. Those 17th century (male?) writers were uninhibited about expressing emotion to a degree that shocks in our anxious and ironic time. I delight that this is preserved among us.