April 5, 2009 - Palm Sunday (RCL)
It was one of those days
when we wish we could have been there.
Jerusalem, a little less than 2000 years ago.
Everyone was there. They’d traveled from far away
to celebrate the feast of the Passover,
that great day
when God had rescued the people
out of the hands of the Egyptians
and led them into freedom
in the promised land.
It was a great celebration, the highlight of the year,
and if you could possibly be there, Jerusalem
was the place to be.
People streamed in, if they were lucky, riding horses, but more often walking,
dusty and tired from long journeys,
but in the last miles
excited by the chance
to celebrate at the temple, the center
of their faith.
The noise was almost overwhelming,
families greeting long lost cousins,
fathers pleading for a family rate at the inn,
grandmothers bargaining for discount on fresh baked bread.
And the dust was everywhere
being tossed up into the air by tramping feet,
and mixing with sweat to mask grimy faces; under their feet,
rubbish and sewage and broken cobblestones
made it crucial to keep their eyes
fixed on the ground
so they wouldn’t fall.
And then
there was a sudden quiet,
a hush
as if a wind had blown the noise away.
And there
down the street
came a donkey.
A small donkey, not even full grown,
and on it
a man was riding.
All around
people were tearing branches off trees
and throwing them on the ground
to cover the dirt and grime,
pulling off their cloaks and spreading them on the road
to make a pathway,
a kind of carpet
fit for a king.
And down he came, along that makeshift carpet,
in his dusty clothes and a straggly beard
on a barely broken colt,
into the heart of the city
and as he came they all joined in,
“Hosanna! Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna!”
*****
Have you ever noticed how differently we behave
when we get in a crowd?
Try to get on the subway in New York at 5 minutes after 5 in the afternoon, and no matter how good your manners,
you’ll push and shove with everybody else.
Turn on the music, dim the lights, fill the floor with dancing bodies
and no one can sit on the sidelines. Your feet just itch
to get up and twist and shout with the best of them.
Go to a football game, and no matter whether you’ve followed your team for 30 years
or just this day,
when it gets down to the last 10 minutes,
you’ll be shouting and cheering with everyone around you.
Stand in the street of a city under threat from a hurricane, watch someone break a window,
and no matter how often you’ve hear the words, “do not steal,”
the next thing you know
you are walking out of a store
with an armful of food
taken straight from the shelves.
Whether the images are from a natural disaster
or New York at rush hour
or a high school gym
or football game,
we all know
that it’s easy
to be part of a crowd, and when you’re part of a crowd
the easiest thing
is to join in.
Alone, we can be quite ordinary,
conservative, doing things as we have always done them,
but get us in a crowd
and anything becomes possible.
And so
on that very first Palm Sunday,
they all joined in. Making a royal pathway through the dust and dirt. Shouting hosanna, acclaiming this man
as their king.
But in less than a week,
they had forgotten it all.
A few short days
and they couldn’t remember what it was
that had made them shout, what it was
that had made them celebrate.
He was just a man, a rebel, a trouble maker,
and one they wanted nothing to do with.
So that when the Governor gave them a chance
to rescue him,
to have him pardoned
they shouted instead for the murderer, Barabbas.
And Jesus?
“Crucify him!” they shouted. “Crucify him!”
The crowd was out for blood,
and blood
is what they got.
Crowds are fickle things. One moment
they’re a great force for good; the next,
agents of hatred and destruction:
and you are caught up in it all. Because in a crowd
anything is possible.
And of course, crowds only stay
while the going is good. As soon as things start to turn sour,
as soon as there is any sign of a threat,
they begin to trickle away
so that all that is left
is an empty street,
or a man hanging
on a cross.
We sing glorias at Christmastime,
hosannas on Palm Sunday,
hallelujahs on Easter Day.
But when pain comes, when the crowds melt away,
do we go with them?
Today begins
the most holy week
in Christendom.
The week we remember
the death of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Day by day, step by step,
we move closer
to the cross.
And as we do
the crowds
will melt away.
Because this journey
is no fun; this journey
does not lend itself to celebration; this journey
is not one we can make absent-mindedly,
going along with the group.
This journey is one
when we leave the crowds behind,
when we single-mindedly
make a decision
to follow Jesus
wherever he leads us
even
into
death.
With hosannas
ringing in our ears
we begin a journey,
through the dankness of the night before he died,
as he shares with us
his body and blood,
as he prays, lonely in the garden.
We follow him
to his trial
by the authorities
through false accusations
and ridicule.
We watch him drag
his cross up the hill
and hang, dying on a cross.
And together
with his friends,
we lift his body down
and carry it tenderly
into the tomb.
It’s quiet now. Everyone has gone. We are alone
with our God.
From loud hosannas
to a cold, dark tomb, it’s a journey
that we have to make
without the benefit
of the crowds. It’s a difficult journey.
And yet
there is no more important journey
to make.
This is a journey
when we will meet
the only one who can save us, the only one
who can rescue us
from the power of evil
and death,
the only one
who can bring us freedom.
The crowds have gone,
searching for
an easier way.
But there is
no easier way.
It is only after the darkness
that we truly know light,
after death
that we truly know life.
Come with us,
this Holy Week. Leave the crowd
behind. Join the small band
of those who know Jesus
as disciples, as friends.
Remember his final meal;
have your feet washed,
stand vigil
on the day of his death.
Eat and drink, watch and wait, this holy week,
and find
in the passion and death of our Savior
forgiveness and hope
beyond all your dreams.
© Raewynne J. Whiteley 2009