Hosanna: Lord have Mercy

At what moment does the joy turn into sorrow? In what instant does the certainty disintegrate into chaos? One minute we run into the store to buy ice cream; the next minute we try to outrun a spray of bullets. One moment we are holding our loved one in our arms, and the next moment he or she is gone. One minute we are celebrating the relief of our second vaccine; then, before we know it, we are lamenting ten senseless deaths. One moment, we are holding joy like an ornament of glistening glass; the next moment, we are cutting our feet on its broken shards. One moment, the crowds are hailing Jesus as their Savior, and the next moment they are shouting, “Crucify him!” One minute we are waving our palms, praising God’s Glory; and the next minute, we hang our heads and cry, “Lord, have mercy.” One moment we are taking bread from Jesus’ hands, and the next moment we are betraying him for thirty pieces of silver. Palm Sunday, like no other time in our liturgical year, opens to us the infinitesimal space between joy and sorrow, between jubilation and loss. It pulls us into the same strange space into which we are pulled by our own lives.

Why do we, who know that Jesus will once again be victorious on Easter Sunday, need to act out every year the ups and downs of Palm Sunday?  Because in our lives, it’s impossible to practice tragedy before it rips us in two. There is no dress rehearsal for disaster. We can’t practice our own deaths or the deaths of loved ones. To try is merely to miss out on living. But Jesus’ suffering and victory—his death as well as his resurrection—have been given to us. They are ours, just as, in Christ, our sufferings are now God’s. Just as Paul assures the Philippians in today’s epistle: we now share the “mind of Christ.” When we follow him, year after year, to his death and resurrection in Jerusalem, we can learn the treacherous road from joy to sorrow and back again. We can practice being poured out--emptied and then exalted—along Christ’s Way of Love. This practice can anchor us in hope.

Several years ago, I looked up the meaning of the word “Hosanna” so that I could tell the young children in Junior Choir what on earth they were singing. I was surprised to learn that it’s an Aramaic expression that once meant, “Lord, save us!” Even by Jesus’ day, though, it took on a second layer of meaning. It also meant, “Lord, we praise you!”

“Hosanna,” we cry, in our despair and loss. “Hosanna,” we shout, when we are victorious.

“Hosanna,” we cry, when all other words have melted into tears. “Hosanna,” we cry, when God’s strength surrounds us.

In one sustaining breath, Hosanna spans the unfathomable gap between joy and sorrow. In Christ, joy and sorrow are both part of the same song, our cry to the God who never leaves us. We who sorrow so deeply this week, we are invited to practice walking behind a Lord who will turn mourning into dancing, who will remove sackcloth and clothe us with joy. Hosanna, blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord! Save us, and help us, O God.

Vipers in the Shadows

 

 Having grown up in Texas, I have plenty of stories about encounters with poisonous snakes. There was the nest of water moccasins that killed my dachshund as she swam under the lakeside pier. That encounter broke my little-girl heart. There was the coral snake that blocked our way on the only steps up a steep hillside outside of Austin. We had to cross our fingers and run quickly through the untrimmed brush around the steps, praying that the snake’s family wasn’t lurking in there. My snake stories used to shock my European friends: “What kind of god-forsaken wilderness do you come from?” they would gasp in horror. They lived in a viper-less world.

          Snakes aren’t the only source of poison loose in our world, however. The poison of racism infests all of our social structures. The poison of injustice and poverty hides in hamlet and city alike. The poison of indifference, greed, fear, selfishness, and pride lurk in the darkness of our hearts. Our sin is as deadly as a nest of vipers, hiding in the shadows, always ready to strike. There is no such thing as a truly “viper-less” world. It’s not surprising that the serpent provokes Adam and Eve’s bad choices, as it slithers through the shadows of Eden, whispering disobedience.

          At the same time, snakes haven’t always represented evil. In ancient Israel, as in ancient Greece, snakes symbolized healing and new birth. Snakes can shed their skin, rejuvenating themselves, moving forward into new life. Think of the Greek god of medicine and healing, Aesculapius, son of Apollo, who carried a rod with a snake wound around it. Aesculapius’ staff of healing remains with us in the sign of the American Medical Association and perches on the signs of pharmacies across the world. Moses’ serpent of bronze from today’s reading is part of this very ancient symbolism. Archaeologists in the area have found Canaanite amulets with a tiny serpent on a pole, testifying to a shared belief in the magical healing powers of the serpent.

Serpents as sin; serpents as divine punishment; serpents as sources of healing. What do we do with all of the serpents in our readings today? Surely, we don’t believe that God sends vipers to kill us when we complain. And we have trouble understanding what on earth Jesus means by comparing himself to a bronze serpent on a pole. We know that we don’t have a condemning God. It says so right here in our Gospel lesson. We have a God who loves the world, who saves the world, who refuses to condemn the world. God loves the whole of this swirling, whirling, broken and beautiful world. God’s light shines wherever it can in this world and seeks to transform the dark, closed off places, not to destroy them. God the Father chooses not to judge the world. Instead, God sends God’s Son into the midst of it.

Jesus is a human being who, like us, lived in and was tempted by the broken systems of our world. At the same time, though, he is also the face of God. As God, Jesus isn’t complicit in the evil systems that hold us captive. Jesus is the only person who oppressed no one. At the same time, though, he was definitely oppressed. Without deserving it, he was nailed to a Cross by the Roman Empire to die a shameful and painful death. Lifted high upon the Cross, Jesus is the only perfect victim.

It sometimes sounds as if we think that God punished Jesus just to fill some kind of punishment requirement, but why would a loving God do that? Jesus had to suffer not for some abstract reason but because real, live individuals refuse to love one another. Here in the shadows of our world, we hate; we kill; we oppress. We let innocent people die at the hands of systems of greed and empire. Jesus was condemned because powerful people didn’t want to change. They were afraid of the new kind of kingdom of which he spoke.

And yet, as Jesus is lifted high upon the Cross for all the world to see, his death shines light on all the dark places within our souls. I can’t look into Jesus’ suffering eyes without looking into the eyes of each of my victims and seeing them look back at me: the unhoused men and women that I ignore; the enslaved workers overseas who sew the clothes that I buy; the Native Americans whose land my ancestors stole; the children in poverty with whom I don’t share my abundance. I can’t look into Jesus’ suffering eyes without asking forgiveness of all those whom I oppress. I can’t look into Jesus’ suffering eyes without the realization that my only hope is to see Jesus in those whom I have condemned. When I look into Jesus’ eyes on that Cross, I can see my pain, my need of forgiveness, the pain of my victims, and God’s love for us all. We can trust that Jesus on the Cross is not an idol who might lead us astray. Idols don’t suffer with us. Idols are void of compassion. Jesus, however, knows our pain. In Jesus’ suffering eyes, I glimpse the truth, the only truth that set us free—the truth of love. If I truly trust that the Cross is not the last word, if I trust that the end of Jesus’ story is new life for the whole world, then I can trust that there is hope, even beyond my destructiveness. The faith that Jesus requires is not faith in some creed. It is trust in the new life that transcends the death-dealing bonds of victims and oppressors and sets us all free.[1]

This weekend in Louisville, Kentucky, and across the country, people are gathering for the one-year anniversary of Brianna Taylor’s unjust murder at the hands of the police. Her death was a tragedy. No one, especially God, would choose a death like this for a young woman full of joy and promise. And yet, Brianna’s death has been an unveiling. It, and the deaths of so many innocent men and women of color, have shed light into the shadows of racism the permeate our world. Her death has opened our eyes. It has stirred grassroots political involvement among blacks and whites in Louisville and across the country. It has even brought together a group of white people at a little church all the way out in Colorado who study and strive for God’s beloved community.

As Jesus tells us, “those who do what is true come to the light.” We couldn’t save my little dog when those water moccasins bit her under the deck. Those vipers lived under the dock, in the murky shadows, out of sight. That coral snake, though, it lay right on the steps for all to see, the warning red, yellow and black scales bright in the sunlight. We saw that viper and found a way around it. In the same way, following the Cross of the Son of Man lifted high, we too can rise to begin to make amends for the wrongs that we have done. We can reach out to strangers and to former enemies. We can hold up bright lamps of love in the face of wrongs and injustice. We can act, trusting that the truth of God Crucified and Risen is full of resources and possibilities beyond all imagining.

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[1] This whole victim/ oppressor reflection is based on the discussion in Rowan Williams’ book, Resurrection, pp. 3-21.