2020.04.05 Palms or No Palms—Hosanna For Both

For Christians, this is the Sunday we remember the procession of Jesus into Jerusalem, surrounded by what Matthew’s gospel account describes as a large and clamoring crowd. (The biblical footnote indicates that “most”—only most—of the crowd followed him.) 

Jesus is astride a donkey. The crowds spread palms and cloaks in his path. They shout: “Hosanna to the son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” (Hosanna echoes psalm 118:26 and translates as “O save!")  Many exclamations points!

Jesus is the hoped-for Messiah who will change the world’s hidebound classist politics, bringing justice and peace. So they hoped. So we hope.

The donkey is a humble touch, resonant of the Nativity donkey, led by Joseph and carrying a very pregnant Mary. The couple seeks shelter for the birth. They’re too scruffy for any self-respecting inn to shelter, so they end up in a humble stable where Jesus is born and laid in a humble manger. No one could miss the exaggeratedly humble theme—altogether counter to traditional patriarchal images of Almighty God, then and now. Humble imagery still eludes us. It’s not dramatic or impressive. But, let’s face it, would a large majestic stallion tolerate the stable scene or the commotion of the palm procession? Stallions were for warriors. Not this king!

Hosanna isn’t the whole story, however. There are shadows underlying the bleached scene of joy. In Jerusalem, people say, basically: “Who the hell is this?” Then follows a violent scene in which Jesus overturns the usurious tables of greed in the temple, claiming the temple to be a house of prayer. Who is this intruder, acclaimed by unruly mobs, tearing down our business practices, and adulterating our holy ground? Jesus insults the status quo. Jesus assaults our assumptions.

In the rock opera,“Jesus Christ Superstar,” one lyric, beside wild Hosannas and hope-crazed longings, stands out:  “Jesus Christ, Superstar, do you think you’re what they say you are?” A question many still ponder. 

Palm Sunday in 2020 longs for Hosanna. The world is beset by a dangerous virus, ironically called Corona, spreading easily and rapidly. We are staying safely inside, fearful of human contact that could bring death. Hope of life and fear of death linger together in the air, just as they did in ancient times.

Here is what we hung on our front door this Palm Sunday: old dead palms with new green branchlets. In both, God’s grace emerges.

To be physically isolated one from another with no secure timeline about the dissipation of this virus is crazy-making. Back in the early 1980s, I wrote this poem when I was waiting—and waiting like the biblical Job— for the Episcopal Church to ordain me a priest.

When I have no title
    I make one up—irreverend.
When I have no collar
    I roll my neck round.
When I have no church
    I steeple my fingers.
When I have no altar
    I celebrate my back yard.
When I have no bloody wine
    I shed tears
When I have no bread
    I am a sacrament
When I have no God
    I pray anyway. 

Today, I feel the same suspended timelessness mixed with urgency and desire to be free AND well.

When I have no outdoors
    I clean my windows.
When I have no society
    I fight with my spouse.
When I have no fun
    I, well, never mind.
When I have no friendly faces at hand
    I look through my computer screen at pixelated images.
When I see mask-covered faces walking by
    I strain to see smiling eyes.
When I can’t dine out
    I lose weight and treasure my beloved personal spousal chef.
When I have no church
    I bring church on home.
When I pray to God to lift this curse
    I am not humble.

AMEN and HOSANNA!!

2012.31.12 Holy Innocence

Isn’t it true that we often remember, best and most lastingly, the small pieces of advice from wise teachers in elementary school when we are most vulnerably wide open to awe and wonder— before worldly sophistication sets in.

Here’s one from a third grade teacher shared by our parish priest ,who never forgot it.  The children became tense at the sound of a loud approaching siren. The teacher asked what the siren meant.  “Someone has been hurt,” they said,  and called out their own fearful speculations: fire, an accident, an bad emergency. 

The teacher listened to the children’s apprehensive associations. She affirmed them all with the compassion that only good listening can offer. Then she said:  “All this is true, children, but remember too, that whenever you hear the sound of a siren,  it also means that someone is on the way fast to bring help.” 

The time between Nativity and Epiphany, when the Magi finally make it to Bethlehem, thanks to a good star + wise astro-physics and astro-theology,  is a time for breathing after the rush and panic of conspicuous consumption.  

It's a time for hope, enormous hope, unknowing hope.

Something brand new has happened, and we have no idea what it means yet. It’s also very dark time,  full of many “sirens.” A time of mixed fear AND wonder.

When I was pregnant with each of my children and in their early infancy I felt the same—excited wondering, and also exhaustion from the weight of it, and the worry about whether this child would be all right, and would I be a good enough mother?

You know that any “child” will face all of life’s challenges, some more intense than others. Being born whole is a blessing, but only the first step. In church, therefore,  we keep on singing hymns that include cradle and cross, because we know we need to keep hope alive amidst the sirens that signal both hurt and help.

For who knows? Three weird desert types, from the east or the streets, may just ride in, on camels or in hot green sneakers, with wisdom and gifts that may get us through the night, help us understand that there is more than hurt and fear in store—always.

The third graders and their teacher had it right. Help is on the way, and some of it is up to us. 

2012.11.15 On the Other Hand, God

In the wake of the Newtown, CT.  school shooting this week, the tremors, like an earthquake aftermath, will ripple throughout the immediate geographical area, and also through the hearts of people the world over.

One of my sons, who lives in the neighboring town, posted on FaceBook that his son Will, age ten, cried himself to sleep last night. One of Will’s ice hockey teammates is a student in the school where the shooting happened. He was not killed because he was not a kindergartner. Will cried anyway.

Reactions start small and spread.  Every single reaction matters. Every single thought and feeling count— rational, sentimental, denying, skeptical, optimistic or pessimistic, prayerful, practical, bold and impotent, frightened, guilty, loving. ALL of it matters. 

Many people will rush to church, as to an Emergency Room in a time of crisis. They seek healing for broken hopes, wounds new and old, everything/ anything they can’t control. Treated, they leave and don't return till the next emergency.

Maybe Godde can help. If even for an instant, we look to the stars and wonder. This night the blamers of Godde seem as uncertain as those who turn to God for help.

This is a season for children. Secular or religious, children lead the way, in life and in death. It’s silly really. What can a child do?

Inspire and empower love, that’s what.

Kids teach us to care wildly and boldly, move us to lobby for better health care for the mentally ill, to confront powerful gun control resistance, force us to wake us and develop the public will for change, push us to act because we are angry and scared and we love.

We the people really are the people, aren’t we?

Not for naught that the biblical story of Nativity tells us God comes as a newborn child. Not for naught that the Bible reminds us that “a little child will lead them.” 

Will we follow?