PALM SUNDAY

[cappie]

We hear a version of the Passion every year; we start the Sunday with fanfare and palms, singing, “Hosanna!” and then the mess of humanity comes, and all of a sudden Jesus is dead. Each year, we come to this same story, so it’s easy to rush through this, skip through the week with our eyes fixed on what we celebrate next Sunday, to sit through Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, knowing that the real deal is on Easter morning. Because we know what’s coming next. We know that Jesus will defeat evil, injustice, and other forms of death, not with the military might of kings but with the new life of the Resurrection. 

But all this will come later. For now, there is value in sitting in the Passion without rushing to the Resurrection.

The blessing of the church calendar is that we get to live through the seasons, year after year, delving deeper and bringing more experience from our lives into the meaning of the stories.  We pull out big moments in this story, learn about them, live them, identify with them. On Thursday, we will sit in the moments of Gethsemane, in the times, like the disciples, that we simply can’t stay attuned and attentive to God at work in our midst.

On Friday, we will sit in the moment of death.  What grief do we bring to the political execution of our saviour, the political martyrdom of our messiah, the murder at the hands of the authorities, claiming law and order?

This week online, or the next time we celebrate the Eucharist, we’ll hear the familiar words we heard in the story today: “Take, eat; this is my body,” and “Drink from it, all of you.” When we hear these words in this story, the Passion, it’s a reminder that Jesus shared the cup and the bread with everyone at his table—including the one he knew would betray him. Yes, the “last supper,” in which Jesus shares the bread and wine as his body and blood, happens after he discloses the knowledge that he will be betrayed by one at his very table. It lends a new significance to making room at the table, to sharing our gifts with everyone.
Look at all the elements in the story. The plot, the places, the people—we might know them well. So, take another look at the props. We see a donkey and a colt, regular livestock given for the glory of God. We see palms, stripped from the plants grown naturally all around them, and waved to the glory of God. We see cloaks, spread out on the dusty road, taken off of normal people’s backs and offered to the glory of God. Later, there is bread and wine. A table. A simple meal made sacred in the glory of God. These are every day, mundane, secular, and worldly items, made holy in their offering to the Messiah. Even in his own identity, Jesus showed us how something so worldly – humanity – can be so holy – divinity.

The Incarnation blesses that which is human. That Jesus would empty himself in order to be one of us is a sacrifice akin to his crucifixion – have you met humans?  Why would God want to be part of this mess? It must be love. And in return, we are asked to love. To love those who come to the table, even if we know they will betray us.  And to love Jesus, the one who has shown us how to seek and honour the divinity in all of the world.

What do we have available to us, as individuals and a community, that we can offer to God and make holy? Look around at what we see, use, take for granted in the day-to-day. How can we make what we have an offering to God, a thanksgiving of gratitude, an acknowledgment of Christ’s good news?

Putting ourselves into the story can touch us to our core. We can hold onto the hope of Easter as we live into the moments of betrayal, grief, injustice, and violence – in the story of the Passion as well as in our daily lives. And may everything we have, and everything we do, be pleasing to God.