Palm Sunday Reflections

Today was Palm Sunday and the Sunday of Christ’s Passion. Passion, meaning, suffering (for love, I think). This is the day in the Church year when we read about Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey and being greeting with waving palm branches and shouts of “Hosanna!” A few paragraphs later, we read how the people turned on him; how his disciples failed him; and how he was crucified, died, and was buried.

Because of my dual church attendance, I had the opportunity to participate in the Palm/Passion Sunday liturgy twice. I’d like to share what I took away from each.

At the Lutheran church, the pastor read swiftly through the Gospel lesson in Matthew; there wasn’t much time to reflect upon what was happening in the story. He then gave a sermon entitled “Where were James and John?” Basing his sermon entirely on Matthew (and forgetting that elsewhere the Scriptures tell us that John, and Jesus’ mother Mary, were there at the foot of the cross), he talked about how all the disciples had vanished at the crucifixion; they’d all left him.

But then he talked about how, even with that being the case, when Jesus finally did rise again and had the chance to speak with his disciples, he didn’t scold them. He didn’t accuse them of betrayal or tell them they’d failed. Instead, he offered them peace and gave them the mission of spreading the Gospel to all the world, to baptize in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. He not only forgave them completely, but he gave them a very special job to do.

The closing lines of the pastor’s sermon were as follows: “If you know God’s will for your life, and you’re already doing it, that’s great. If you’re not, it’s time to get going. You’ll never be able to do Jesus’ work perfectly. But Jesus doesn’t want your perfection. He wants your heart.”

Amen! How this spoke to me! The Lord and I have been discussing something lately—something he would like for me to do, something he knows I can do, with his help. But he’s not been pushy about it at all; he’s not angry with me because I haven’t already started. Rather, he wants me to do it only if I will put my whole heart into it and rely solely on him for the grace to accomplish it. This reminder that Christ isn’t looking for perfection in my efforts to do his will was so freeing. So freeing, in fact, that I started my “job” this afternoon!

Moving along to the Catholic church……I don’t know if other parishes do this, but at mine, we read the Palm Sunday Gospel lesson as a group—one of the deacons narrates; the priest reads the part of Jesus; a few pre-arranged individuals read the parts of Pontius Pilate, Peter, and Judas; and the rest of us read the parts designated as “the crowd.”

I had remembered this from last year. We as “the crowd” get the terrible task of reading the lines where Jesus is mocked, where Pilate is repeatedly told, “Let him be crucified!” It’s painful to read those lines out loud, to “be” a part of that crowd. There are some people who say they can’t do it; they can’t say those words aloud: “Let him be crucified.” I know how they feel, because….ouch. But it is pride that keeps us from wanting to say those words. We’d all like to think we would never betray our Lord; yet, in a very real sense, we do, every time we sin.

Father C-’s words to us tonight were brief: “What part of Christ’s suffering,” said he, “is not sufficient for you to be able to see how much he loves you?” He detailed for us once more all of Christ’s wounds—the lashings, the crown of thorns, the beatings on his head, the mockery and spitting, the nails in his hands and feet, the piercing of his side.

Every bit of that, he endured for love of us, for humanity. Any one of those things could have been forgone. But for us, because of his love, he suffered them all. A sobering thought.

In doing the daily Mass readings this past week, it’s struck me how many times Jesus escaped being stoned or captured. It was only when it was his time—GOD’S time—that it was finally allowed to happen. Up until then, he managed to disappear every time folks in the crowd started reaching for the rocks. When it finally was his time, he willingly went; but not before the agony in the garden.

Can you imagine his fear? If I remember right, the Bible says he was sweating blood, begging the Father to “take this cup” from him. And yet, he was willing to do his Father’s will (which was, of course, his own). And here it is so easy for us to whine and complain and drag our feet when he asks us to do something so innocuous as help out a neighbor or go to Confession or donate some money to a good cause or use our talent for his glory.

Remember in the garden when he chastised the sons of Zebedee: “Can you not keep watch with me for one hour?” He needed their support and prayers, and they were falling asleep!

How it pierces my heart to read of that.

My oldest son attends a religious education class at the Catholic church for one hour every Sunday afternoon. Sometimes I spend that hour in the church chapel, praying and just “hanging out with Jesus” (I’m in a chair, he’s in the tabernacle in the form of the Blessed Sacrament). Those are beautiful times, and God has spoken to me often during those hours.

But other times, I just dash in for a quick prayer—or worse, I don’t dash in at all—before heading back to my van to read a novel while I wait for Urban.

“Can you not keep watch with me for one hour?”

Last week was one of those five-minute-prayer weeks, and as I was leaving the chapel, I kept hearing those words in my head. I heard them as I pushed open the door of the building and headed out into the sunshine. I promised Him I’d do it “next week.”

Which meant today. And so I did spend most of that hour with him.

“Can you not keep watch with me for one hour?”

These are the same words I remember whenever I don’t feel like going to church—which, if I’m completely honest, is pretty much every single weekend. (Isn’t that awful?) But for all the wonderful things he has done for me and for my family—for all the wonderful things he continues to do, despite my so-often less-than-grateful heart—giving up my Sundays to attend church (twice) is the very, very least I can do.

Have a blessed Holy Week, my dear friends!