Sunday, March 20, 2016

Between Sundays

Here's today's homily. The gospel is Luke 19:28-40.


I have always been acutely attuned to bad news, keenly aware of the abyss into which any of us can plunge at any moment. Some of this is a function of family history: from a very young age, I knew the story of how my mother’s mother died suddenly in a car accident when my mom was twelve, how my father’s mother died suddenly in his arms of a massive stroke. Some of it’s a function of neurochemistry: along with grim family stories, I inherited depression and anxiety. All of this meant that as a kid, I moved through the world like some combination of Eeyore and Wednesday Addams. I’ve often heard people say that children never think they’re going to die. I always knew I was going to die. I knew that everyone around me was going to die, quite possibly within the next hour, especially if they did anything foolish like getting on an airplane or crossing a street.

As you can imagine, this made me really popular at parties. My father was an attorney, so I got dragged to quite a few tony Manhattan cocktail parties. The other children at the parties did frivolous things like play games. I’d find a family pet to cuddle, or a bookshelf to browse, or just stand in a corner feeling lonely and doomed.  How could these people be so happy? Didn’t they know they were going to die?  

I’ve gotten a little better at navigating parties as an adult, but they still make me uncomfortable. I’m much happier in places other people would consider stressful or depressing, like volunteering in the emergency room, where I never have to make small talk about sports or the weather and where no one ignores mortality.

I’m saying all of this to explain why I’ve never liked Palm Sunday, which is nothing if not a party. Jesus enters Jerusalem in triumph, riding the Donkey of Prophecy, as people cheer and sing and throw down their cloaks, the equivalent of a red carpet. Picture me standing at the back of the crowd, feeling lonely and doomed. How can these people be so happy? Don’t they know Jesus is going to die?  

And there you have it, the paradox of Palm Sunday. Just as Jesus has entered the gates of Jerusalem, we have now crossed the threshold into the heart of the liturgical year, the series of services -- Tenebrae, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Saturday Easter Vigil -- that will culminate in Easter Sunday. Today is a happy day:  a parade day when we sing and wave palms. Next Sunday will also be a happy day, the happiest in our calendar. In between, things get dark.

Palm Sunday poses a worship quandary. People who only come to church on Sundays -- who go from Jesus' triumphant procession into Jerusalem straight to his triumphant departure from the tomb -- miss a lot of the story. Such people might be inclined to think that Christianity's just one triumph after another, all joy and light. Many churches, to prevent this misconception, perform the Passion on Palm Sunday, so that people in the pews will have some idea what happens between the two Sundays. But that creates liturgical whiplash, leading worshippers in the space of an hour from the joy of Palm Sunday to the despair of the crucifixion. 

St. Paul's is one of the churches that has decided to keep Palm Sunday for songs and hosannas, trusting its congregation to actually come to Holy Week services. If you've never attended them, they're beautiful and ancient, deeply moving. If you miss them, you're really missing out. Please do make every effort to join us for those other services this week.

In the meantime, here we are, on Palm Sunday, cheering with the crowd as Jesus rides into Jerusalem on that donkey. But we also, like Jesus himself, know what comes next. We know that the crowds that love him today are going to turn on him, because he isn't the militant Messiah they want, the one who'll violently overthrow Roman rule. We know the religious establishment will turn on him because he threatens their fragile peace with Roman rule, and we know the Romans will turn on him for being a dangerous criminal element, a revolutionary.

Jesus rode into Jerusalem knowing that he would die there. He'd tried to tell his closest friends, but they didn't believe him. For him, Palm Sunday must have been a very strange celebration, a tug of war between joy and grief.  

Here's a story about another celebration like that. On Christmas Eve, 1934, a priest named Frederick Graves celebrated mass at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church in Reno. We can imagine the candlelit sanctuary, the joyous carols, happy families wishing Father Graves a Merry Christmas as they filed out of church to go home. What none of them knew, because he hadn't told them, was that a few hours earlier, he'd gotten a phone call. His daughter Mary, a young mother who lived in Berkeley, had been killed when her bicycle brakes failed on a steep hill.

Frederick Graves left that Christmas Eve service to drive straight to California. He was a woodworker, and when he came home from his daughter’s funeral he began carving an altar as a memorial to her. It featured scenes from the life of Jesus, and in one corner he inscribed the words, "Erected to the glory of God in gratitude for the joyous life of Mary Graves Dunn."  St. Stephen's still used that altar when I began attending in 1999, and continued doing so until the parish closed in 2010. I believe the altar has now been donated to a church in another state.

Frederick Graves must have been heartbroken that Christmas Eve. He knew something his joyous congregation didn't: he would be leaving them that evening to mourn the death of his child, the most painful thing any parent can experience. But he also knew something else. He knew the good news I hadn’t yet learned as a child in a secular household. He knew about resurrection. Despite his anguish, I'm sure he celebrated that Christmas mass with whatever joy he could muster, the same joy he celebrated in his inscription to Mary.

Resurrection took several forms, in this case. It took the form of the altar itself, which helped feed and succor so many people for so many years. And it took another form. Peter Dunn, the little boy whose mother was killed on Christmas Eve in 1934, grew up to marry a woman named Sharon. At first, neither Peter nor Sharon were churchgoers, but in due course, she became an Episcopalian. They moved to Reno, and she started attending the church where Peter's grandfather had been a vicar. When I met Sherry Dunn, she was a priest at St. Stephen's, celebrating the Eucharist at the altar dedicated to the memory of her husband's mother.

Palm Sunday is a joyous party, and we should indeed enjoy ourselves today. But we also need to resist the temptation of believing that Christianity is nothing but joy and light, one triumph after another. Our faith doesn’t promise us fame, fortune, success, or even happiness. It promises us resurrection, and resurrection doesn’t happen at triumphant processions. It happens at tombs. If you want to see God bringing things back to life, you have to go to the places where it looks like everything’s dead. You have to go to all those scary, inconvenient places, the ones that fall between Sundays:  the Garden of Gethsemane, the foot of the cross, the tomb.

These places don’t feel like parties.  There are no cheering crowds or red carpets.  But if you walk to what looks like the end of the story and wait there, you’ll see something that will change your life: the reason for all our hosannas, the reason we are still waving palms two thousand years after that first Palm Sunday.


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