April 2, 2023

Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday Year A

Epiphany, Winnipeg

Matthew 27:11-54

You might have noticed something a bit off, or perhaps in your mind just plain wrong, a few minutes ago. A few of us stood up here at the front and sang a song about welcoming the Lord into the city – lift up your heads, lift up your gates! – and we said that word that we’re not supposed to say during Lent: Halleluia. If I were sitting there where you are and I heard that happen I likely would have harumphed deep inside, or maybe even under my breath, or maybe even right out loud, and I might even have been a little grumpy about the whole thing. I’m just that way. It was a misplaced Hallelujah (that Maureen and I discussed and we thought would be OK. Just this once.) Maybe words are often misplaced. The wrong things come out at the wrong time. And it was OK that a misplaced Hallelujah was sung, because it sometimes seems like all our words are misplaced, or it just seems so hard to know what to say. What is there to say? Try out a Hallelujah during Lent, and maybe that’s good enough for now when all the words in the world can’t contain what we see and hear all around us on the news, in the world, close to home and deep inside. Sometimes just a Hallelujah is a small word of faith and hope when it might be so hard to make sense of it all. Maybe that’s why Jesus just goes quiet all of a sudden. Did you notice? When he and his disciples were nearing the city he gave some instructions about going ahead into town and getting a donkey and her colt, but once he starts making the journey into Jerusalem he says nothing. The crowd calls out Hosanna, which means something like “Save us!”, and they say, “Blessed Be the one who is coming”; blessed be Jesus. And Jesus rides along quietly. No speeches, sermons, or comments. The story starts with quiet Jesus at the centre of the scene. No misplaced words for him. Once he’s in the city though, the talking begins again, and if you were to sit down and read through the next six chapters you would see that Jesus has so so much to say about so many things. He argues with leaders and he curses a fig tree and makes a bit of chaos in the temple. He tells stories and parables that are brilliant or weird, and argues with leaders. He commends a woman for pouring out a lavish extravagant generous gift on him; he argues with leaders and gets himself into all kinds of trouble; he eats a dinner with his friends and says “This is my body; this is my blood,” and he begs his friends to stay awake with him and pray with him. They try, but they can’t. And he pleads with God that maybe, maybe, this all doesn’t have to happen, but if it does then so be it.

There are so many words after he enters the city. But today it’s different again: As we met him just now we found him in court, standing in front of the one who can convict him or set him free, and after one brief answer to a question Jesus says nothing more. He just goes quiet on his day in court. Maybe Jesus just knows that his words won’t make any difference at this point. Or maybe he’s tired of trying to convince anyone and he’s worn out from arguing and he knows that any words now might just be misplaced words. Or while he sits at trial his mind wanders to all the troubles he knows about around him and in the world that he knows and he knows that words can’t make sense of it all. So he just stays quiet until he cries out once, “My God, why have you forsaken me?” That word isn’t misplaced at all.

And as Jesus goes silent, he stands right there with anyone whose voice is silenced, or whose voice is not heard. He stands even right here with anyone who doesn’t know what to say or who is trying hard to make sense of things too hard to understand, and they find, you find, we find, that sometimes there just are no words.

Holy Week has begun. I suppose we might call it Holiest Week, because this week more than any other our focus is drawn to the mystery of the world’s salvation and the mystery of God’s work in that; to the mystery of “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.”

The mystery of our salvation. As we enter into this week I recommend a spiritual practice for all of us. Try not to let too many words get in the way. Don’t try to explain this mystery of our salvation or worry too much about figuring it out. Remember the mystery of it all.

And try something as simple as this: Notice what’s going on around you, far away or close by, on the news, or on a walk in the park or a trip to the store. See the people around you and know that among them there are some who believe with all their hearts, there are some who struggle, and there are some who don’t even really notice that there’s this Holy Week thing going on. Know that there are some who are hungry and some who are grieving, some who are so sad or so angry, and some who are so happy for every good reason. There are some with spite and violence in their thinking and in their acting, and there are so many gracious and grateful and caring people around us too. Notice them. And as you notice all of this, notice your own certainty or doubt, your own unanswered questions or sadness or fears or joys. Enjoy your own dinner with close friends or walks in the snow or whatever brings you gratitude and joy. Remember that we’re not just remembering something that happened so long ago. This week, maybe more than any other, we look around and listen and begin to see that this story of Holy Week is still unfolding and now we are part of it. And the story of Jesus, the one welcomed into the city, the one crucified, the one who will be raised, is the story of one who walks right here with us into our life and the world’s life. And if you do say a word or two, nothing is really misplaced. A Hosanna – Lord, save us – or even a Hallelujah, or a “Why have you forsaken?,” or even a “thank you.”

Just let the events this week unfold as they do. Pay attention, and see this story become our story in our day. And at the centre of it all, see this mystery that draws us together now…right there in the middle of the waving palms, right there even when the palms are gone: A cross, a dying, a rising.

AMEN.