Palm Sunday
April 5, 2009
I love that as part of the Church, we get so many opportunities to be part of the crowd around Jesus.
When we see the pageant on Christmas Eve and join in singing the beautiful carols, we can imagine ourselves among the shepherds, hearing the good news of Christ’s birth from the angels and seeing God with us as a baby in the manger.
When we stand together at coffee hour, tasting our portion of the delicious treats and enjoying the fellowship of the People of God, we can imagine ourselves among the crowd of 5000 when Jesus broke a few loaves and fish into enough food to feed them all.
When we rejoice over the birth of a new baby in this parish or the healing of someone who has been on our prayer list, we can imagine ourselves awed and amazed watching as Jesus touched one of the many people who came to him for healing.
When we mourn together over a heartbreak or a sickness, or gather for a funeral of some loved member of this place, we can imagine Jesus among us weeping as he did for the death of his friend Lazarus.
When we are absolved after the confession and relieved of our sorrow for the things we have done and left undone, we can imagine Jesus assuring forgiveness to the broken.
Each Sunday as we hold out our hands for bread and share the cup of wine, we can imagine ourselves at the Last Supper, when Jesus shared bread and wine with his friends.
And this morning, as we gathered outside with our palms and waved them while processing triumphantly into the church, we could imagine ourselves part of the crowd cheering and welcoming Jesus into Jerusalem. It’s a parade full of expectation, all of us joining together to proclaim something new and exciting.
I love this beginning to the Palm Sunday service. It feels like a brief preview of Easter, when we will get our alleluias back and put up the glorious Easter panels and the butterfly banner and be surrounded by lilies and children dressed in fruffy pastels.
But we aren’t there yet, are we? We know where Jesus’ triumphal entry on the colt leads. Before we get to the joy of Easter, we have to get through the pain of the crucifixion.
Which is, of course, the second part of the Palm Sunday service. The part where we have to become part of the jeering crowd that crucified Jesus. The part where we shout along with them, “Crucify him!” That opportunity to be part of the crowd around Jesus I could do without.
How is it that this service that started so well – with us singing joyfully and marching in a parade for Jesus, our Redeemer King – can end so badly – with our being part of this horrible betrayal and crucifixion? Why such an abrupt turn-around in one service?
The answer, cynical as it is, is that the writers of the prayer book figured that if the Passion Gospel weren’t read today, all the folks who only come to church on Sundays would never hear the account of Jesus’ trial and death. They’d jump from the triumphal entry into Jerusalem to the triumphal resurrection and miss the very important middle part of the story. The part where God’s great love for us is shown in confusing and agonizing detail. And to miss that part is to misunderstand the story – there’s no Easter without Good Friday, afterall.
But I think there's another reason to have these two gospel texts share the same Sunday morning space. It isn’t just our liturgy for this morning that makes an abrupt turn-around. The crowds around Jesus have turned just as abruptly. They’ve turned from a joyous, expectant, celebratory crowd that cheers for Jesus into a frenzied, menacing, faceless mob that shrieks for his death. They’ve picked up their pitchforks and their torches and turned on him.
Alone either of these Gospel readings would be poignant and full of meaning. But together, juxtaposed, with their stark contrasts, they hit us even harder. We can no longer sit safely as bystanders, watching the procession and the betrayal from afar. We are forced inside these crowds. We are forced to see ourselves as part of this mob that was capable of turning on Jesus so quickly and so violently.
It reminds me of that scene in Lord of the Flies when what starts as a fairly innocent tribal dance turns into a murderous mob. It was a frightening scene, but what made it truly terrifying was the ominous realization that any of us could find ourselves in the midst of it. The line between peaceful demonstration and violent riot is a thin one; our good intentions sometimes pave the road to hell. The “beastie” is sometimes within us.
The clash of palms and passion on this Sunday confronts us with our own imperfect discipleship; we have to acknowledge that this tension between lauding and disowning Jesus (or at best, forgetting him) is one that we live in on all but our very best days.
Like the crowds around Jesus who one day hail and celebrate him and the next betray, desert and deny him, we can be fair-weather friends to God as well.
We want God's voice, but wish we could pick what God had to say to us.
We want God's grace, but would like to determine who else can or cannot receive it.
We want some direction from God, but we want to retain the right to go our own way too.
We want God to be part of our lives, but without quite so much challenge, please.
The uncomfortable truth is that in our own ways we are just like Judas who betrayed Jesus, just like the disciples who could not stay awake to pray with him, just like Peter who denied Jesus, just like all of the followers who deserted him. We can turn just as quickly as the crowd that one day hailed Jesus as a king and threw palm fronds at his feet and a few days later jeered and condemned him.
But, as uneasy as it makes me, becoming part of that crowd is not only part of the extended Holy Week liturgy that starts this morning, it is part of how we prepare ourselves for Easter. Part of how we prepare to be part of the crowd that mourns the death of Jesus, wonders at his empty grave, and rejoices in his resurrection. Part of the crowd that is redeemed, forgiven and free.
Amen.
Elizabeth Rees