As I walk through my neighborhood during Holy Week, the world is alive. It’s spring and fragrant. Orange blossoms scent the air while bees pollinate. Knowing their aim, the hum of their wings is peaceful. The sky is cool and overcast with evergreens stretched into quiet arches, offering shelter to nesting birds and playful squirrels.

I listen to the Scripture—just louder than the parrots squawking overhead.

This week depicts the final moments of Jesus’ life before death. His innocence being acknowledged while not enough to keep him from torture and an unjust trial, the mocking, the abuse and being hung to die. There were so many opportunities to claim power or rescue himself, or even simply to explain.  

“For the joy set before him,” the preacher said last Sunday.

That phrase echoes as I walk. How did he stay so focused?So faithful? A small string of disappointments or rejections can send me on a path of questioning. And yet Jesus—betrayed, beaten, dying—remains steady.

How resilient he was. How fragile I am.

And still, the trees grow. Slow. Strong. Resilient. They outlast seasons, drought, and pollution. They have been consistent in their presence for longer than my lifetime, with some two, three and four times my age. They don’t strive, and yet they flourish.

This, their God given design. 

Am I designed with these characteristics, too?

A small string of disappointments or rejections can send me on a path of questioning. And yet Jesus—betrayed, beaten, dying—remains steady. Share on X

The squirrels jump from branch to branch, focused and playful. The parrots call or debate (No one in LA really knows) and yet are very effective in letting each other know exactly what they are up to. Even the coyotes, hungry and skulking, move with purpose. They seem attuned to their Creator.

And I return to the Scripture.

Jesus is crucified— he hangs as a human billboard of shame from the Roman government, mocked as a failed king. Even in his agony, he speaks: forgiveness to the crowd, comfort to the thief, care for his mother, and words to his Father.

And I wonder about death.

His death:

• Did he know how it would end, or did he walk in obedience, one faithful step at a time?
• Was it love or grief or both that filled him?
• How, through unimaginable pain of punctures in his limbs and side, could he remain an offering of peace?
• How was he leaning into the joy of the future while simultaneously suffering in anguish? 

My death:

Not physical. Not yet. But the death of my ego, absolutely.

• Am I willing to let go of image, competence, power?
• Am I willing to be misunderstood, overlooked, or underestimated in order to stay aligned with the deeper joy before me?

This feels like the harder death right now. Especially in this season—new places, new people, the ache to belong. Experience and expertise that may or may not be welcomed. 

But maybe that’s the invitation:

• To listen for joy.
• To move slowly and faithfully like the trees.
• To live, like the parrots, squirrels, and coyotes of my neighborhood, in tune with my natural design.
• To follow Jesus, not in public triumph, but in quiet courage.

In this quiet space of reflection, it is apparent, resurrection has already begun.

///

Am I willing to let go of image, competence, power? Am I willing to be misunderstood, overlooked, or underestimated in order to stay aligned with the deeper joy before me? This feels like the harder death right now. Share on X