On Palm Sunday I took the boys to an early Mass. We were a few minutes early and I knelt down to enjoy the quiet. As it turned out, the priest was 15 minutes late, so there was a lot of quiet to enjoy. Someone sat down to play a piano piece while we were waiting. It was a little strange: the guy wasn't especially technically skilled (plenty of missed notes), but the piece spoke more clearly than any music I ever remember hearing. Without words it told about the Passion, a hymn of praise and a terrible lament woven into one.
I always find the Palm Sunday liturgy a little jarring -- 15 minutes after we sang "Hosanna!" we're chorusing "Crucify him!" And this may sound a little silly, but I hate the "Crucify him!" part. It pierces me, every time, to hear that rejection of our redemption. I make myself say it; as much as I hope I would be one of the weeping women and not one of the mockers, I can't know for sure.
It hit me, there in the stillness before Mass, that Palm Sunday is an emblem of the Christian life. We get these glimpses of the glory of God, of the fullness of truth in the person of Christ. We say, "OH! It's YOU! Hosanna, hosanna!" Fifteen minutes later, we (or at least I) say peevishly, "No, you're not the boss of me. Who do you think you are anyway?" And we have to choose, over and over (and over), to say, "Wait. Yes. You are the boss of me. I will yield to you even when I think I have a better idea, even when I don't understand you at all."
Last night I went to Mass on campus and I was reflecting on the washing of the feet. Once during a Mass for a retreat team, the priest washed all of our feet and it was enormously powerful. I remember thinking, "If I'd known you were going to do this, I would have taken a shower before I came, and maybe trimmed my toenails." That's me all over, doubting that anybody could really love me if he saw the dirty smelly parts of me. I'll never forget the priest's tenderness, or the call implicit in his actions: "as I have done for you, you should also do."
In last night's liturgy the principal celebrant was wearing a beautiful chasuble. When he took it off for the washing of the feet, it unfurled around him in a golden cloud. I thought about Philippians 2, Christ setting aside his glory to serve and suffer. I watched him go down the line of barefoot men with words from 1 John in my head: See what love the Father has shown us.
Sometimes, my friends, I find myself in the grips of self-satisfied smugness, of pride in the things I've learned. "Look how I'm Getting It," I'll muse. "Thinking scripturally and everything!" Usually there is a smackdown moment waiting right around the corner. A few weeks ago I went to Mass with my oldest son when I was hugely irritated with my husband. On the way there I was grumbling about how there was NO GAS WHATSOEVER in the van (an assertion belied by its simultaneous operation). "Mom," he said tentatively, "don't you think you'd better let that go? Doesn't the Bible say you shouldn't approach the altar when you have something against your brother?" Out of the mouths of babes, huh? But even with that reminder, I went into church thinking, "I'm pretty sure that in twenty years of knowing this man, I've forgiven him at least 490 times. Couldn't I get a pass on this one?"The answer, mute and incontrovertible, hung from the cross.
Usually by Good Friday I am sick of Lent. For the past several years
I have been too ambitious about Lent, resolving to give up pretty much
everything I enjoy and live a life of asceticism for six weeks. It
never works. I was going to try it again, but just before Ash
Wednesday I found a resolution in
my archives not to be so dumb this year. It's made for a much better
Lent. Since I came down with shingles on Palm Sunday, I decided to
regard that as a divinely appointed penance and not to worry about
anything other than bearing up with reasonably good cheer through the
shingles. I ate ice cream with a clear conscience. (For the analgesic
effect, you know.)
I don't know if that's the reason why, but I'm in a far better frame of mind this Good Friday. The mystery of the day is much on my mind, that the one without sin was made sin for us. My pride, my hardheartedness, my willingness to say "Enough, this is too hard" -- Christ took them on himself. The one who knows our dirty smelly parts and loves us regardless -- he spread his arms wide in welcome and blessing, and yielded up his life to set us free. Glory to him.
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