Palm Sunday A – The Greater Irony
Dear Partner in Preaching,
Have you ever noticed that Palm Sunday isn’t really Palm Sunday anymore?
I’m familiar with the variety of liturgical rationales for the change to “Passion Sunday,” not least of which is the practical recognition that if our folks don’t come to Holy Week services they go from glory (triumphal entry) to glory (resurrection). But even with that awareness, I still mourn the loss of what was one of my favorite days of the church year growing up. Processing in with palms, singing “Crown Him with Many Crowns,” hearing the story of Jesus entering the city on a donkey (or colt, or donkey andcolt in Matthew – which makes for an interesting visual, kind of like a stunt rider at a rodeo!), imagining the chants of the expectant, even jubilant crowd. It was a spectacle in the best sense of that word.
Noting all kinds of liturgically orthodox reasons for the change, I think what I miss as a preacher is the dramatic sense of irony. Yes, it is these welcoming crowds that later turn on Jesus. It is those shouting “Hosanna” who will later cry out “Crucify him.” Jesus processes into Jerusalem in triumph. A week later he will process out of the city to the garbage-heap-turned-execution-ground in shame.
We can still lift up that irony, of course. We can read Matthew 21:1-11either as the main Gospel reading or as an earlier reading, perhaps even at the outset of the service. Or we can reference the story in our sermon (though it strikes me as easier and more understandable to omit the passion reading and reference that). Whatever. The point is that irony is the heart of this reading. The crowds expect one kind of Messiah and get another. Their disappointment is heartfelt and, truth be told, understandable.
As is ours.
Don’t we also long for a God who is strong, someone who will come in to whatever challenging or dire situation we face light a knight astride a horse to save the day? Particularly now, with fear coursing across our congregations and country, with most churches closed – honestly, who could have imagined this even a few months ago?! – and health professionals and civic leaders nearly overwhelmed by the challenges in front of this. As I write this, the most recent models released suggest that well more than 100,000 people could die from this virus… and that’s if we get far more serious about social distancing than many communities are. Would we, I wonder, have reacted any differently than the crowds who hail Jesus’ entrance as the one who will rescue them and who later reject Jesus’ offer not to rescue but instead to redeem them through his own and complete identification with their suffering?
I’m not sure we’re all that more faithful, all that much less fickle, than the crowds who play significant roles in both the Palm Sunday and Passion readings. Which is not to condemn us, particularly, but rather simply to remind us that God chooses another way. God chooses to meet us in our vulnerability, to accept us in our weakness, to love us in our un-lovability, to redeem us amid our sin.
Which is perhaps why one detail in the Matthew 21 reading, repeated again in Matthew’s record of the Last Supper (26:17-35), stands out to me. And that’s that… Jesus knows what is going to happen. He prepares the disciples for what to say to the one holding the donkey and colt, and his words are “my hour is near” (21:18). And he prepares them for what to say to the keeper of the room in which they’ll share the Passover. These passing references reinforce that Jesus has predicted his betrayal and crucifixion multiple times across the Matthew’s Gospel. He knows what is coming… and is undeterred by it. Why? Because he is the emissary and embodiment of God’s profound love for the world – all the world, the righteous and unrighteous, the repentant and unrepentant, the religious and irreligious, those who greet him as Messiah and those who reject him as criminal. In short, Jesus comes for the good, the bad, and everyone in between.
Yes, the irony between the jubilant cries on Palm Sunday and the bloodthirsty screams a few days later is poignant, even bitter. But perhaps the greater irony is that Jesus still came, embracing their shifting character and faithless temperament, reaching out for those who were about to do all kinds of harm out of fear, those who hailed him as Messiah until the requirement was too great and then denounced him as overly demanding or at least ignored him as well-intentioned but hopelessly idealistic. Jesus came for them.
And he comes for us – indeed, shift the verbs of the preceding sentence from past to present-tense and you have described us to uncomfortably well.
Perhaps one of the things – not so much revealed, as simply and once again clarified – by the current crisis is our penchant to call on God only in great need and expect just what we want from God. The irony is that how God comes to us – in vulnerability and weakness to identify with and embrace us rather than in might to rescue is – is rarely what we would desire. But the greater irony is that God comes anyway, committed to loving us and redeeming us no matter what the cost.
Thanks for sharing both of these ironies, Dear Partner. Your words, likely shared digitally this coming Sunday, remind us that God is with us and for us through this crisis and all the others of our lives and, by making that promise, renew us in faith and equip us to be a source of help and hope to those around us. Thank you for your good work, and blessings on your proclamation.
Yours in Christ,
David
PS: Thanks to the many folks who sent emails after yesterday’s post. One of the things I’m doing to help create more time for more writing is simply not responding to the majority of emails that come. I feel terribly rude doing this, but it’s one way to clear a little more room for writing amid all the other usual – and these days unusual – demands. Thanks for your appreciation and for your understanding.
Thank you!
Thank you, and it’s good to read your words again. Something in the Passion narrative this week got my attention like it had not done before. It speaks to the irony of the whole scene. When Judas approaches Jesus in the garden, Jesus says, “Friend, do what you have to do.” Friend. Just as he will be to Peter later on after his denials, Jesus ironically calls his betrayer “friend.” That’s what I think of as the irony of grace. It’s also a strong foundation for my hope that I’ll someday hear the same greeting, despite the number of times I’ve betrayed who God creates me to be.
Thank you, for taking time to write in the midst of all that is happening. For those of us who have been fans of “in the meantime” for a long time, you give us a sense of order and peace that is much needed in these days. Thank you for your dedication and care, and for encouraging all of us who are working to share the gospel in these days. Thank you for being a partner on the journey. Holding you in prayer!