I am not sure I like Palm Sunday. What I mean is that I don’t like how it makes me feel. There is way too much contrast between shouting “Hosanna” to the King one minute and “Crucify him” the next.
It creates a real contradiction in me. I love the hosannas. They lift my spirit. I have a sense that this is what my life is supposed to proclaim:
Alleluia to the King! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna to you, Lord.
I just find my heart raised to thank Jesus; so thankful to him for who Jesus is, for what he has done for and in me, what he continues doing with me and in me, and what I hope for the future.
Then comes the passion gospel, like a punch to the head; the transition is so dramatic as to be disorienting, spiritually and emotionally.
It is a complete reorientation, a complete change of reference and I feel a bit defensive because as we move along the trajectory of that account I know what is coming and I don’t like it.
I hate saying those words crucify him – I try not to, yet I must because the reality is that had I been present in that time and place I most likely would have been there, feeling betrayed by Jesus because he wasn’t the kind of messiah that I wanted, wasn’t the kind of king bringing the kind of kingdom I expected. He didn’t draw the sword and drive out the Roman occupiers; he didn’t make life easier for those following him. In fact, he made life a bit more difficult for those who followed him.
And every time in this present existence when I catch myself thinking terrible things about people, when I do things and say things that are certainly unloving and sometimes just plain evil, when I go through a situation and don’t get my way, when I am humbled and respond in anger, in quiet moments later I will feel the sense that I have just revisited this story, I have just looked at Jesus and shouted Crucify him for not getting my way and, like Peter in the courtyard, I feel his stare cutting through me for abandoning him; failing him when he expects better.
But, that seem to be the purpose of this time in the Church – these liturgies – to draw us into this event, to see ourselves in this great drama of God accomplishing our redemption.
Years ago I read an article that has stuck in my memory over the years.
As I remember it was written a few years after the Civil War by a reporter or writer who was visiting the Gettysburg Battlefield.
This fellow, as I remember it, was sitting on the stone wall that became known in history as the high water mark of the confederacy, gazing out over the lush fields in front of him.
It was against this stone wall, behind which the federal soldiers waited, that General George Pickett of General Robert E. Lee’s army directed his 13,000 confederate soldiers on July 3 1863.
It was across these lush fields that ranks of confederate soldiers, advancing across an open mile-wide space all but melted away in the face of a terrible reign of musket and cannon fire from the union line behind this wall.
This was Pickett’s’ charge.
Only a very few made it to the wall. Only half the attackers, about 6,400, survived at all.
It was immediately following this ill-fated attack that when directed by General Lee to reform his division, General Pickett responded: General Lee, I have no division.
As this reporter sat gazing across this hallowed open space, he noticed a solitary figure in the distance coming toward him; walking steadily across the field.
As he got closer, he noticed that this man was dressed in that old brown garb common to the confederate soldier know as butternut.
As he got closer still he noted that he was fully equipped as a confederate infantryman, he carried a musket high on his right shoulder – the position of right shoulder shift – the position that Pickett’s soldiers would have carried their muskets during their charge.
He watched as the soldier stopped short of the fence on the Emmitsburg Pike, a road running parallel to the stone wall not too far distant. And there he fixed a bayonet on the end of his musket.
He watched as this solitary soldier climbed up and over the fence and crossed the road.
He watched as this soldier came to the position of charge bayonet, and continued to advance toward him on the stone wall.
As this soldier came ever closer, the reporter could hear the deep sobs and he saw the tears running down his face.
Crossing the wall, this soldier sank to his knees and wept openly for a time.
As I remember, the reporter made a comment something to the effect that this solitary soldier truly remembered the great and tragic event that took place there so long ago, because he put himself in the midst of it, he allowed the historical event to reach out through time and touch him, affect him and even perhaps change him.
Beginning today we too revisit a most tragic and yet glorious event; an event or series of events that had been planned for eons and executed during the time of the roman occupation of Judea, a little know backwater of the Roman Empire.
These events hallow the village of Jerusalem and the land about, as the place where history, the universe, mankind, you and I were changed forever.
Beginning today we remember, that last week in the life of Jesus of Nazareth. We begin by acclaiming his arrival in Jerusalem. We will remember his last meal with his friends where the meaning of Passover will be changed for his followers. We will remember his abandonment and betrayal by friends. We will remember his last three hours of life, hanging on a cross. We will remember his death, his last breath.
We remember this week, but how will we remember?
Will we be like the reporter, standing at a distance, objectively separated from the event, just watching?
Or will we be like that soldier, sucked into the event heart and soul, seeing ourselves there, putting ourselves on the road shouting hosanna one moment and crucify him the next? Will we put ourselves there as Jesus is whipped, mocked, beaten and crucified?
We may not want to, but we need to because all of this is for us. Jesus suffered that we might not. We remember these events in order that we might stand at the foot of the cross and hear Jesus say to us who ultimately put him there: Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.
I don’t particularly like this week. It becomes too personal. Yet I need this week, desperately need this week, because it keeps my life in perspective. I need to remember who Jesus is and what he has done for me. I need to remember who I am and my place, my participation in these events, or I fear would truly be lost.
We need to remember the events of this week, the heart of the Christian faith, not watching from a distance – maintaining an objective view – but put ourselves in the midst of it, allow the events to reach out through time and touch us, affect us and even perhaps change us, because we will meet Jesus there, accomplishing our salvation.
