The Urgency of Hope

As I have said before from this pulpit, this day in the Christian calendar is exceedingly filled with good memories from my childhood. Whether from the insightful words of my beloved childhood pastor or the blessing of a powerful imagination as a kid or the tactile nature of holding a palm in my hand, on this Sunday, more than any other during the year, I was able to really feel like I was part of the crowd who gathered along that, I assumed, dusty road leading to the ceremonial gates of the Holy City as we all shouted with one voice, “Hosanna, hosanna, blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Most High, hosanna!” And it would feel celebratory. A momentary respite from the darkness and solemnity of the Lenten journey. A chance to lift our voices as a singular church family in a way that was not ever allowed the other 51 Sundays a year. To sing with joy, “All Glory, Laud, and Honor” with all the exuberance that such a powerful hymn requires. To wave our branches alongside throngs of people who for nearly two millennia had done roughly the same thing. In a season of the year that could feel long and dreary, in which sermons spoke of all the things that were wrong with the people of God and, indeed, all of creation, of melting away the dross to find gold, of burning the chaff in an unquenchable fire in order to find whatever in us was unsullied by the sinful manner in which we all lived our lives, Palm Sunday was a shining beacon of the power of Christ to declare itself even in front of all those forces that would soon thereafter conspire to quench it permanently, like the wick of an oil lamp denied fuel. And whatever passing reference to all that would soon be upon us, the last meal shared with the disciples, the arrest, the trials, the scourging, the cross, the darkness of Holy Saturday, the finality of the tomb all paled in comparison to the thrill that one experienced waving frond and laying cloak down on the road and seeing the holy child of God riding on a donkey towards his destiny with head held high and a fierce determination to stare down all the forces of hell. Even as an adult there is something magical about watching the children of this church shout out their hosannas. There is something, too, transcendent about this space and the connection that it shares with spaces like it from across the entirety of the Christian story. In the challenge of being a two pastor, two denomination family, some hour and a half from here Seamus is singing with the children’s choir at my wife’s congregation and I am missing it. All this is to say that more so than almost every other Sunday of the year, there is the opportunity to form recollections that will live on in each of our faiths throughout the years and to which we will think back fondly, at some point.

Even in the telling of the story that we have in our reading for this morning, there is something magical in the manner in which the whole event transpires. Jesus, perhaps sensing that he is about to enter into the city for one of the last times, sends two of his disciples to commit grand theft donkey armed only with the reassurance that if someone should happen to ask what they are doing leading an animal that they do not own away they need only reply that “the Lord needs it” and all will be made right. And in Matthew’s telling of the story, in his need to meticulously follow the Hebrew scripture as he understands it to the exact letter, there is actually a second donkey, a young colt, and it is on both of them that Jesus evidently rides, presumably with one leg thrown over the donkey and the other over the colt. And as seemingly the culmination of the ministry of Jesus on earth, both sides of the road are packed with people who can’t get close enough to the messiah as he makes his way down to the ceremonial entrance to Jerusalem. And even the actual entry into the city is done in such a way as to suggest that Jesus is the conquering leader, having overcome all those who would oppose him and now coming back to a grateful people wanting only to celebrate that victory with him. Of course one need only know the most basic history of the time to know that this was going to anger the wrong people. To enter into Jerusalem as if he were a triumphant general or ruling caesar would only garner the attention of the forces that occupied Jerusalem at that time leaving Jesus open to have charges of sedition leveled against him—a reality that will soon become all too real over the course of the next few days. Of course in the recountings of the story found in all of the first three gospels in the New Testament, the savior seemingly not satisfied with drawing the ire of civic authorities, goes into the Temple and immediately causes chaos to ensue as he “cleanses” it off all the ways that poor folks were religiously swindled out of their money while both the money changers the Temple leadership lined their pockets. And as we know from history, if you want to really anger someone, go after their money. Soon after this event concludes those within the highest level of religious power would conspire to silences Jesus in their own way, as well.

The problem with all of this, on this morning, is that even though I have promised to not speak about dying part of Lent during our Lenten journey, even though I want each and everyone of y’all to form a new memory of this day in which our kids carry palms and shout out their words of praise loud enough for Mr. Grundy to hear all the way in the back, even though we all need a respite from the Lenten season to celebrate the victory that we already know that Jesus has won over the powers of darkness and death, I don’t feel particularly celebratory this morning. I don’t feel particularly celebratory when I know that for at least seven families there are empty chairs at the dinner table where once teachers, school directors, custodians, and God knows, 8 and 9 year-olds sat only a few days ago. I don’t feel particularly celebratory when I know of the utter fear that grips every mom, day, brother, sister, aunt, uncle, grandparent of school-aged children at the prospect of sending their children back to school when we know that one of the central causes of school shootings in this country is there having been one in the immediate past. And the only way that we can overcome that fear is to delude ourselves into thinking that that can’t possibly happen in my kids school, even as we know that we are only ever lying to ourselves. I don’t feel particularly celebratory when even before smell of gun smoke had cleared out of the hallways where before there had just been laughing young ones, members of congress had already declared that there was nothing that they could do to stop the next one from happening, with one even saying that he homeschooled his kids so he wasn’t worried about this. I don’t feel particularly celebratory when our own state legislature, a governing body that has to power to do more good for Kentuckians in one day than 99.9999% of the population, chose to use one of those days to pass draconian regulations against transgender children that will only serve to more fully ostracize kids who are already on the outside looking in in almost every system imaginable. I don’t feel like celebrating when my friends have to move their children out of this state because they fear their own government. The world does not feel like a particularly safe place on this morning and it is difficult to hold onto the light of resurrection when so many are hurting, so many are fearful, so many see only the most bleak future. But, this is what makes our message this day and everyday so fiercely urgent. This is what makes the light of resurrection all the brighter in the darkened corners of our world. This is what makes it so critically important that we cling to it and be bearers of it and share it with all that we meet. As we gather here in this space, where so many of us have gathered in the past, it is our calling to hold onto the light and hope that those who came before us held for us so that those who come after will be able to see and in seeing continue the work of putting the world back together again whenever the events of the day have seemingly shattered it into a billion pieces all over again. In every age since its inception, it has been the central task of the Church to hold onto the hope of the world. In every age since its inception the Church has stood strong against the forces of apathy and nihilism that would declare the whole of creation to be one large failed experiment with no chance of being redeemed. In every age it has been on us to tell the story of light overcoming darkness, life overcoming death, love overcoming hatred, so that when we all experience those moments in which the darkness has seemingly won, we can hold onto our faith that tells us that a light has shined in the darkness that the darkness has never, ever overcome. We have to tell the story so that anytime death has seemingly garnered the last word whether in towns hit by tornadoes or school buildings in which the all too common sound of gunshots have rung out our faith reminds us of an empty tomb, a risen savior, and a call to share in his resurrection. We have to tell the story so that anytime hatred has seemingly overcome the power of love whether expressed in bigotry that has cloaked itself in religion, bullying of helpless children by those we elect to represent us or the dehumanizing of some over and against the reification of others, our faith would declare before the gates of hell that we are created in love, suffused with love every moment of our lives, and we will all return to the source of that love as all the children are called to come back home. In this time, in which the challenges of the world seem insurmountable, it is critically, urgently important that no matter how hard it might be for any of us personally to do so that we hold on to hope, that we speak of hope, that we tell of hope, until hope might continue the work of redemption back to God in this moment, and this one, and this one.

Friends, it is rare that the world in which we inhabit so perfectly coincides with the story of our faith and yet, as we begin this Holy Week together, it is not hard to imagine the difficulties that faced the savior, that faced all who followed him. It is not hard to feel as if all the powers and principalities of the world are set against the movement of the spirit. It is not hard to imagine of a people walking in darkness desperate to see a light. Nor, however, is it hard to imagine an empty tomb, the peace and light that seemingly permeates every space in creation at that moment, the love that seems to be flowing freely between creator and created. That’s where we know we are headed and its just a few more agonizing steps before we can celebrate it together in this space once again. Stay strong, my friends, for though this life can feel arduous, and this path before us long and rocky, we know where we are going and we know where it ends. Stay strong. Amen.