Last week I went in for my physical that I’m supposed to have once a year but haven’t in 4 years. After going through all the tests, the doctor asked if I was allergic to anything.
“Nope. Never have been,” I replied.
“OK, then let’s test it.”
She then proceeded to open a case and stick 32 plastic needles into my skin. These are like iron maidens for Barbie dolls. I thanked Jack Bauer and then calmly explained that I had no idea where the terrorist network was.
“We’ll see,” she calmly responded and left the room.
Not ten seconds later my arm was on fire, itching horribly, and I couldn’t tell if it was because of the fact that I had been stabbed and tortured or because I was actually allergic. When I looked down at my arm, I had the answer.
Hives had broken out in neat little patterns and some had gotten quite huge. My whole forearm was splotchy and I had flashbacks to getting chicken pox in high school. For two weeks I was forced to wear a cow bell and yell, “Unclean!” as I walked through the house. Even the dog was afraid of me.
The doctor reentered the room and proceeded to start setting up the water boarding, when she noticed my arm.
“Wow!” Her eyes were as wide as quarters.
“Is that a medical term because one of my arms looks like Popeye with a rash?”
“No. I just can’t believe your allergies. You have it bad.”
“That’s probably because you stabbed me with poison.”
“No. I’m pretty sure you have really bad allergies to the following:
wheat, oak, ragweed, dust, mold, and cats.”
Now I don’t even know what half that stuff is but I am pretty sure that everyone is allergic to dust and mold. Except dust and mold themselves. I don’t really care for cats so that doesn’t affect my life at all. I’m not about to go around eating ragweed and oak.
But wheat?
Seriously?
My mind started to race to all those bowls of cereal that I had enjoyed my entire life. Biscuits and gravy. Pancakes. Bread and butter. Crescent rolls. Cinnamon rolls. Doughnuts. Pizza wrapped dough. Indian frybread and zeppolis at church fairs. Mounds of flour!
So now I am left to deal with the remains of dietary restrictions, whatever they may be. What I thought was a lactose intolerance to the cheese on my pizza and the milk in my cereal was actually a wheat allergy.
Welcome to Holy Week.
If this Lent wasn’t tough enough on a number of levels for me, forcing me to grow in areas that I did not even know I needed to, this is the "flour" on the icing on the cake. I really thought I would be able to coast through Holy Week, spiritually reaching the peak of the Lenten journey.
I wonder if Christ felt the same way on Palm Sunday, going into Monday. There He was, marching to His death, and people were celebrating Him because He had just raised Lazarus from the dead. Crowds were praising Him, rocks were about to cry out. All the right people were angry and jealous.
And suddenly Jerusalem appears over the horizon and Jesus breaks down in tears.
He sees the coming week.
He sees the agony.
He sees the coming years and the destruction of the great city.
He understands, perhaps in His humanity, that this is just a fleeting moment before the real work of salvation is to begin.
Lent isn’t over because it is Holy Week. With all of our preparations for Easter, being off from school, being with family, preparing liturgies and overdosing on ministry and eggs, let’s not forget the last six weeks. It is merely a preparation for our own journey.
Perhaps this Holy Week we can all reflect on this one question: “Have I grown in my love of God in the last six weeks?”
By that I mean, do we long for Him as we long for water and food? Do we desire God in the same way that we desired that which we have given up? What changes have taken place for us that bring us closer to holiness? What is God shining a light on that we still have to change?
For me, Lent has been an allergy test. Little pins stabbing me to see where I hive up, where I am allergic to the love of God because I have become accustomed to sin in one form or another. God wants to purify me, give me what I need, give me what is good for me, even if I am not aware of the sin I am accustomed to.
Sometimes it takes the prick of 32 needles to remind us that we have come far, but have a long way to go toward perfect surrender.
