Palms or Passion? (Reflections on Palm Sunday, Year B 2024)

 

"Jesus Enters Jerusalem" (Giotto, It. 14th Cent.)

Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” (Mark 11:9)

When I remember Palm Sunday back in the day, I have a semi-nightmarish vision of me as a Sunday school teacher and Chairman of Altar Servers at St. Luke’s Lutheran in Long Beach, California attempting to wrangle unruly little Lutheran kids into some semblance of a procession. The challenge was to get twenty or more kids—all of whom were squirming around like squirrels on Red Bull—to stop hitting each other with their palm branches, walk in a straight line, and proceed down the nave of the church following the crucifer while the adult choir followed behind bellowing “All Glory, Laud, and Honor.[i]” The results of my labors always garnered a smile on the faces of the congregants. Lutherans love to see little kids in church. We also love to get those blessed palm fronds, so Palm Sunday usually turns out to be a pretty cool event.

As a Lutheran, I was never used to calling the Sunday which begins Holy Week the Sunday of the Passion. Nope, it was always Palm Sunday for me. I’ve come to find out, however, that our Roman Catholic brothers and sisters have been observing this Sunday as Passion Sunday for centuries. In fact, older liturgical traditions observed both Lent 5 and Palm Sunday as part of a two-week observance of Jesus’ final days. About 1962 Pope John XXIII figured two weeks to think about Jesus suffering and dying might be a bit excessive, so the Passion observance was cut back to just Palm Sunday and Holy Week.

I’ve always figured that good, church-going folks would observe the drama of this week the way I always remembered it. We’d wave palms on Sunday. Then we’d wash the feet, eat the meal, and in some way remember Jesus’ betrayal on Thursday—that last part traditionally being done by the removing of all ornamentation from the chancel and processing out of the worship space in mournful silence as we contemplated the really nasty stuff that awaited Jesus after that Last Supper. Finally, we’d return to church on Friday night for the gloomy (but super cool, if you ask me!) Tenebrae service in which the seven candles—one for each time Jesus spoke from the cross—were slowly extinguished, the church was slowly darkened, and we’d all leave wordlessly in pitch black, trying not to trip on anything until we got safely out to the parking lot.[ii]

It wasn’t until I got to seminary that I was introduced to the very ancient practice of reading the entire passion narrative on the Sunday before Easter. Part of me still rebels against this, but I can also see the wisdom. We miss the whole point of the Gospel if we just want to go from triumphal entry and loud Hosannas to resurrection and that other word of acclamation we’re not supposed to say during Lent. I was actually a bit shocked when I first began my ministry at Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia to discover the congregation actually held no service at all on Good Friday. The worship space was left open for prayer, but I only remember one person ever taking advantage of this. One parishioner told me they didn’t like Good Friday because it was “too depressing.”

That’s rather the point.

The truth is, there is suffering in this world, and Jesus came to share in our pain, to take it on himself, and, through his empathy, to bring us to a place of healing. But we can’t be empathetic if we don’t admit to our shame and our weakness. We need to hear the passion story.

I’ll admit that Mark’s description of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem seems a little silly and anti-climactic. Jesus rides on a colt, a baby horse or donkey. He doesn’t enter on a magnificent stallion as a conquering hero might. Rather, he comes on this tiny animal which might just barely be able to carry his weight. He’s not at a trot or a gallop, just the slow plodding of this little beast of burden. The palm branches, traditionally waved to welcome a victorious hero, are spread for Jesus as are the cloaks of “many people,” but Mark only says those in the procession are cheering. When Jesus reaches the Temple, he has a little look around, then decides it’s late and goes home. Nothing spectacular happens. The whole business seems a little pathetic as Mark tells it.

You have to wonder if those spectators in Jerusalem felt a trifle disappointed by the low-key arrival of the rabbi from Nazareth. Were they expecting more flash, more spectacle, more drama? Were they looking for a superstar? Did they want a macho man who would come at the head of an army, ready to kick the snot out of their oppressors? Perhaps they felt so let down in their expectations that five days later, when given the choice by Pontius Pilate between Jesus or Barabbas, they’d shout for a violent insurrectionist and bandit over the man who healed the sick and welcomed the sinners.

We don’t like to look at weakness or pain. Perhaps it’s because we’re too afraid of our own. We might think that, if people only knew who we really are—how scared or disappointed or powerless or unsuccessful we feel—they’d want nothing to do with us. We want to cover up our hurts, but Jesus came to show us our pain and love us anyway.

I still love the traditions of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. I love to wash the feet of the first-time communicants and act out the servanthood Jesus humbled himself to demonstrate. I still love to sit in the growing darkness of a Good Friday Tenebrae service and remember how the sky turned black when the Redeemer of the World was murdered on the cross. Of course, I understand there are reasons why others aren’t in church for all of this. There are work schedules and family commitments and some just don’t drive at night anymore. So I would be remiss if I didn’t remind you that this little parade we celebrate on Palm Sunday was only a tiny moment of victory which—like so many tiny victories in our own lives—would soon be eclipsed by sorrow, pain, and death.

The bright green palm fronds we carry from church on Palm Sunday will soon turn dry and brown. The Gospel story will also turn from bright victory and cheering to betrayal, cowardice, cruelty, and mourning. It will show us all the things of this world and of our sinful selves we’ll need to confront before we can appreciate the final victory of God.

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[i] Evangelical Lutheran Worship hymn number 344, in case you’re interested. The music was composed in the 17^th century, but it’s been Number One with a bullet for Palm Sunday processionals as long as I can remember.

[ii] A Tenebrae service is creepy, but really effective.