It’s a beautiful Palm Sunday where I live.

The sun is shining. The trees are starting to show leaves. Birdsong is in the air.

And I feel nothing.

Maybe it’s depression. Or maybe it’s the C-PTSD outflow my psychologist told me would happen once I accepted the trauma. Maybe it’s perimenopause. I don’t know but I’m certainly in one of those seasons of… nothing? It could be lament. And there is certainly an element of grief mixed in. Still it’s more than that. I’m not content with my old way of living my faith. It seems I’m missing some key parts and this melancholic season highlights the lack.

I still believe in Jesus. His sacrifice. His resurrection. His ascension. There’s little doubt in me. What I’m not so certain of is how ‘we, the church‘ walk out his mandate. We get all hyped about the end of the story, but often gloss over the everything that came before. His actions. His teachings. We’re like little kids who listen to half the directions and run off and do things in a rushed manner not realizing the mess we’re making in the process.

I’m convinced that if the whole church – Catholic, Orthodox and the many types of Protestant congregations – put away everything but the gospel for ONE year, the world would change. By no means do I think the rest of the bible is lesser than, however it seems we’ve lost the plot.

The creation and fall. The corrupt and sinful. This is all of us. Not one of us is exempt.

But then there is Jesus. Of grace and compassion. Of healing and guiding. The Jesus who walked on water, but also walked with man. The Jesus who went to quiet spaces and the Jesus who spoke to thousands. Who saw the needs of the collective, but was humble enough to change the lives of individuals.

“He saw them and had compassion on them.”

I can give money. I can give time. I can do all the stuff. That doesn’t make me Christ-like.

What was it about Jesus that made people worship him?

“Hosanna, blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.”

Every action of Christ was done in love, with joy, in peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and with immense self-control. His life bore the fruit. How often have I done “what’s right” out of duty or worse, shame, rather than in compassion?

Palm Sunday. A triumphant entry leading to a unexpected outcome. Not the victory, but death. Not military might, but deep grace.

In my lament, in my grief, I’m challenging myself to embrace the middle chapters of the gospels. The actions and compassion of Christ. The patience he gave people in need. In a melancholic season such as this, I’m praying; not for a lighter spirit or easier way, but rather a gentle, patient, humility to walk it out. Praying for the strength to endure this season and knowing he walks with me in my sorrow.