Palm Sunday

Readings: Lk 19:28-40; Is 50:4-7; Ph 2:6-11; Lk 22:14—23:56

VIDEO

We like our leaders strong.

We like them strong because 
we want them to protect us.
We like them strong because
the world is a tough place
and if you don’t want 
to get pushed around 
you need someone
who can meet force with force,
who can return blow for blow.
We like them strong because 
we see our leaders as role models,
and would like to be strong ourselves,
or at least to feel the warm, reflected glow
of our leader’s strength.

Alas for us Christians.
There is a moment where Jesus 
looks like he might turn out to be 
the strong leader that we want.
There is a moment 
when he rides into Jerusalem 
greeted by rapturous cries of
“Blessed is the king who come
in the name of the Lord,”
and we think, 
“Now it’s going to happen;
here at last is the one 
who will keep us safe
and make our enemies pay.”

Alas for us Christians,
that’s not how it turned out.
Our leader did not 
make our enemies pay.
Our enemies betrayed him
and arrested him
and lied about him
and mocked him
and tortured him
and killed him.
And what did he do?
What did he say?

Alas for us Christians, he said, 
“let the greatest among you 
be as the youngest,
and the leader as the servant….
I am among you 
as the one who serves.”
He said, 
“not my will but yours be done”
as his sweat became like drops of blood
falling on the ground.
He said,
“Stop, no more of this!”
when his disciples drew their weapons
to defend him.
He said,
“Father, forgive them, 
they know not what they do.”
He said,
“Father, into your hands 
I commend my spirit”

Are we disappointed?
Are we disappointed that he,
who was in the form of God,
“emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave…
humbled himself, 
becoming obedient to the point of death,
even death on a cross”?
Are we disappointed that he seems
to have surrendered his power
just when we needed it most?
Are we disappointed not merely
because he did not meet force with force,
did not return blow for blow,
but let himself be humiliated
before the watching world,
giving his back to those who beat him,
his cheeks to those who plucked his beard;
not shielding his face from buffets and spitting.
Are we disappointed that he didn’t rage 
against the dying of the light?

But what if we are wrong?
Not wrong to want a strong leader,
but wrong about what counts as true strength.
Not wrong to want our enemies defeated,
but wrong about how that defeat takes place.
Not wrong to aspire to emulate our leader,
but wrong about what it means to follow his way.
What if strength 
is found in humility?
What if the defeat of our enemies 
is found in forgiving them?
What if the path to glory
is the way of the Cross?

Now we enter into this mystery—
the mystery of strength found in weakness,
the mystery of victory found in mercy,
the mystery of life found in death.

Alas for us Christians 
if we turn our backs on this mystery,
preferring the ruler of this world,
with his blustering power and his empty show,
to the true king who comes in the Lord’s name.

Alas for us Christians if we walk amid 
the halls of worldly power,
rather than walking the path of the Cross,
the path that leads to the empty tomb 
and the halls of heaven.

Alas for us Christians if we trust in those
who have no power to save,
rather than praying that God, 
who is merciful,
might have mercy on us all.
Father, forgive us,
if we know not what we do.

Palm Sunday (C)

Readings: Luke 19:28-40

Isaiah 50:4-7; Philippians 2:6-11; Luke 22:14-23:56

So, who killed Jesus?

Who is responsible for his death?

Of course we believe that the death of Jesus

is somehow part of God’s plan for human salvation,

but we might still ask about the human actors in this drama.

This has been a question of particularly intense interest

among Christian theologians and others

since the 1950s when,

in the wake of the slaughter of millions of Jews by the Nazis,

Christians began to reassess the long-held view

that the Jewish people as a whole

were collectively responsible for Jesus’ death

and therefore, as a people, cursed by God.

For Catholics, this process of reassessment eventually led in 1965

to the Second Vatican Council’s declaration Nostra Aetate,

which declared that the Jewish people did not share

collective or hereditary guilt for Jesus’ death

and that “the Jews should not be presented

as rejected or accursed by God.”

Which then leaves us with the question:

if not the Jews, then who?

Where can we lay the blame?

Whom can we hold responsible?

Today’s passion Gospel from Luke

seems to be of limited help here,

since the story it tells is one

in which responsibility is passed around like a hot potato.

The leaders of the Jewish people

would like Jesus out of the picture because he is a blasphemer

and because he has just enough of a following

that his disciples might cause serious trouble

that would bring down the wrath of the Romans on the whole city.

But they don’t want to alienate the crowds

who had greeted Jesus upon his entry into Jerusalem,

so they would like the Roman governor, Pilate,

to take care of the problem.

Pilate does not see Jesus as much of a threat,

and he waffles and vacillates and hems and haws,

not because he wants to acquit an innocent man,

but because he wants someone else to make the decision for him.

So he sends him to Herod,

the ruler of Jesus’ home province of Galilee.

Herod is initially curious, but eventually disappointed

when Jesus won’t perform tricks for him,

so he sends him back to Pilate.

Finally, Pilate, strengthened by Herod’s contempt for Jesus

and incited by the crowd

and the advice of the religious leaders of the people,

agrees to have Jesus executed.

So who is responsible?

Whom can we blame?

There seems to be plenty of blame to go around,

and lots of plausible candidates to hang it on.

But it is unsettling not to have a clear scapegoat to blame,

someone whom I can clearly identify as evil,

the sort of monster who would do the kind of things

I would never do.

It was so much clearer when it was “them” – the Jews –

who were responsible.

It is unsettling not to have a scapegoat,

because it leaves me open to asking myself

if perhaps I might not be all that different

from those who passed Jesus around like a hot potato.

Perhaps I too, like the Jewish leaders,

want those who disturb my peace simply to go away.

Perhaps I too, like Pilate,

am unwilling to act on what I know is true and good.

Perhaps I too, like Herod,

want only the sort of savior who will perform tricks at my behest.

Those responsible for the death of Jesus were not monsters

who did something that I would never do;

they were ordinary people who did what I do on a daily basis.

Their sins are my sins.

Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world:

enlighten the eyes of our hearts and have mercy on us.