I don't know about April being the cruelest month (I'd be more inclined to pick October or November) but April 4th is certainly a momentous date: it's the date Dr. King was killed and the date Heath Ledger was born (though not the same year, obviously). It's technically not Palm Sunday this year, but it's Palm Sunday for me because my choir sang at the Saturday evening Mass this weekend.

I recently read a non-fiction book called The Irrational Season by Madeleine L'Engle, who has been one of my favorite novelists for years, but I'd never read any of her non-fiction until now. I'm not sure exactly why, but I'm glad of it because I don't think I would have gotten as much out of it in high school as I have now. Anyway, in the book she describes participating in reading the Passion as part of the crowding chanting, "Crucify him!" and describes how it disturbs her because she doesn't know whether or not she would have actually been part of that screaming mob had she been there at the time.

I can relate to this. During most of my childhood summers I participated in the Black Hills Passion Play (which, alas, is now defunct), but it wasn't until I was 12 years old (old enough and tall enough) that I participated in the mob scenes. And the first time I did so it was extremely difficult, because on one hand I was acting in a way that was completely counter to my nature, and yet at the same time I felt within myself the capacity for that depth of violent rage and blind hatred, and I felt that, under certain circumstances, I too could possibly be carried away by those emotions. After all, had I not been carried away to a lesser degree by violent emotions all my life? Did I not consider myself somehow akin to the Incredible Hulk? Eventually I got myself under control, and realized that if you're going to do a Passion Play, you need an angry mob or it's not going to work.

Tonight when we read the Passion, what struck me was the way Jesus' friends all abandoned him when the high priests came to arrest him. This is something else Ms. L'Engle addresses in The Irrational Season, pointing out that it was the women who stuck by him, despite--or perhaps because of--the fact that they were virtually powerless, second-class citizens. That was something that I'd never really thought about before, and that's probably the reason why it struck me tonight more than ever. In fairness to the disciples, while it would have been very noble of them all to go along and die with Jesus, it would have meant there would be no one left to tell the story (except the women, and in that societal situation who would have listened to them?), so it was probably a good thing in the long run that they did run away, but tonight I was disgusted with them for their cowardice.

And yet, even while I was disgusted with them, I had to ask myself if I wouldn't have done the same thing in their shoes. Would I have had the courage to stand by Jesus and be persecuted and possibly killed with him? To answer this question I attempt to broaden it by imagining in Jesus' place a friend or family member, and it becomes easier to imagine standing my ground, but I still don't know that that's the choice I would make if I were actually faced with the decision.

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Why are people so rude? Most of my amplification for that assessment is privileged information, unfortunately, but I can give one example: this afternoon our choir was singing in church, and we sang a postlude (song after the service proper had ended) which we don't usually do. Where we stand in the front of the church also happens to be right in front of an exit, and they had a barricade at the end of the church aisle to dissuade people from exiting behind us while we were singing. But then a bunch of people just went around us the other way. Now, I don't expect people to stand around and listen, but they should at least have the courtesy not to walk past us as though we were a noisy flock of geese or something.

Why do people say "Happy Memorial Day"? I can only assume that it's because they've forgotten what Memorial Day is supposed to be about, ironically enough. Now, as someone in a wretched job, I can understand why people given a day off from work would want to enjoy it, but is there no other time that they can do it? It seems like people who GET holidays off at all usually get more than one per year. Is it too much to ask to have one day in the year to solemnly remember those who have passed on? When I was growing up, we never did anything fun on Memorial Day. My parents always dragged us out to visit the graves; it was depressing and I dreaded it, but it taught me respect for those who have gone before us, even if they'd gone so long ago that I never knew them. Now, I'm not necessarily saying that people shouldn't have fun on Memorial Day; I'm just saying it would be nice if they would realize that maybe not everybody is having fun; maybe some people might have lost family or loved ones recently (like, within the last two weeks, maybe) and so this time might be a little painful or difficult for them.