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.