Palm Sunday

              April 1, 2007

We have reenacted the “Triumphal Entry” into Jerusalem, we have added our voices to the chorus in the dramatic recitation of the “Passion Narrative,” and we have heard the testimony of the centurion, who said, “Certainly this man was innocent.”  Emotionally, Palm Sunday is always the hardest liturgy for me.  In the span of a few minutes I find myself tossed about, clinging to theological threads, and hoping to spin enough of them together to make some sense of things.  It is never an easy trip, but I do understand that it is not supposed to be an easy trip.

     I want to begin today by telling you about two men, both seriously injured, sharing the same room at a VA hospital.  One man was able to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs and hopefully prevent pneumonia.  His bed was next to the room’s only window.  The other man had to spend all his time lying flat on his back.  The men talked for hours on end.  They spoke of their wives and children, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military, and the manner in which they had been injured.  They talked about vacations, their favorite college and pro football team, and about NASCAR.  Every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window.  The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside. 

     The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake.  Ducks and swans played in and on the water, while children sailed their model boats, and shared breadcrumbs with the waterfowl.  Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color of the rainbow.  Grand old trees graced the landscape, and a fine view of the city could be seen in the distance.  As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene. 

     One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by.  Although the other man couldn’t hear the band he could see it in his mind’s eye as the gentleman by the window painted the picture with descriptive words.

     Days and weeks passed.  One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep.  She was saddened and called the VA attendants to take the body away.

     As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window.  The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.  Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look, in several months, at the world outside.  Finally, he would have the joy of seeing it for himself, after hearing his late roommate describe it so elegantly.  He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed.  He was astonished to find that he faced a blank wall. 

     When the nurse came back into the room the man asked her what could have compelled his deceased roommate to have described such wonderful things outside this non-existent window.  The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall.  She said, “Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you.”

     I do not know the truth of that story.  It could have happened.  I do believe that Palm Sunday is God’s way of helping us see a picture of pure love even though we were not there.  I do know that the Palm Sunday parade, begun with triumphant shouts of victory that the King had come to reestablish national greatness and ending in disillusionment at Calvary’s shameful cross, requires us to see ourselves in the crowd, even without having been physically present.  I must see myself shouting “Hosanna! Blessed is he that comes in the name of the Lord.”  And, “Crucify him!”  Having that description, given in scripture and by the Holy Spirit, defines my participation in the remaining days of Holy Week.  I can go from Palm Sunday through the events of the coming week and come to next Sunday with a deeper appreciation for the radical love of God.  I can see the truth of these events with the spiritual eye.  I pray that might be true for each of you, as well.

     We are not the same.  We do not have to be the same.  We are not expected to be the same.  What we are expected to do is paint this picture to others who may not have heard it or who have forgotten it.  That’s the challenge God gives us on this day.  Be faithful.  Don’t worry about getting it perfect.  You and I will never get it like the original artist.  It is a profoundly moving portrait of the love of God.  We will never see anything more disturbing or more beautiful than this.  Paint this picture.  Use words if you must.  Amen.