Sermon Luke 19:28-40
Palm Sunday
St. Michael and All Angels
March 24, 2013

In recent years, Palm Sunday has become the source of some debate. Online clergy forums discuss the integrity of focusing on Palms (“it is Palm Sunday after all!”). Others argue that we need to do the whole passion story (“what about people who won’t come to church between now and Easter? How will they prepare for the resurrection without the passion?”) Most commentaries cover all the bases by providing resources for both palms and passion. In addition to the theological debate, there is also the inward tension we experience. It is hard to focus on the parade when we know “the rest of the story”.

Adults tend to treat Palm Sunday as a kind of naïve kid holiday. We sit back and watch the kids wave their palms. We may half-heartedly wave our palms, then slink into our pews with relief that we can be done with that embarrassing display of emotion. If we choose to think of this as a Sunday about an historic parade that we nostalgically re-enact each year, it allows us keep our distance from the story and lets us off the hook somehow.

Garrison Keillor tells the story of his uncle who, at annual family gatherings during Holy Week, would read the story of the passion and death of Jesus. And each year, when he came to the verses describing Jesus’ betrayal he would burst into tears. The family would sit awkwardly until the man was able to continue reading. Keillor commented that his uncle took the death of Jesus “so personally.” He’d pause in his story, then add: “The rest of the church had gotten over that years ago.”

This is our story. But it is a story so powerful that it can’t be trusted to humans alone. If we don’t tell it, the entire natural world will. Luke says if we are silent “The stones will shout” reminding us that this story isn’t just about us…it’s about all of creation.

All of life is from God – the whole universe shares bane and blessing, life and death. We are knit together in such a way that if we were silent, the stones would cry out. Romans 8:22 describes the whole creation groaning in labor pains.

We have almost absentmindedly included creation into our understanding of Jesus’ life and death. When we tell the story of his birth, we talk about the camels and the sheep that gather. Matthew describes an earthquake at Jesus’ death while Mark and Luke tell of darkness that came over the whole land. But creation isn’t an afterthought – it is woven into the very fabric of God’s relationship with humanity.

The story of God’s love of the world through Jesus’ life can be scary. God’s awesome power overwhelms us and we find ourselves holding back. When God speaks, amazing things happen. At Jesus’ baptism, the heavens open and God says “This is my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased” and his ministry begins. Everywhere he goes, lives are changed, people are healed, those who are hungry are fed, and those who have been captive are set free. People are in awe of this man. From the earliest days, God spoke to the people, but God’s voice was not always welcome. In the Exodus story, the people are terrified by God’s voice and they beg Moses to ask God not to speak to them again.

I wonder if this is when God began to speak through creation. When those same people were thirsty, Moses struck a rock and water poured out. Could this be the voice of God speaking through the rock?

In the story, A River Runs Through It, Norman MacLean’s father, a Presbyterian minister, explains the mysteries of the beautiful creation in early 20th century Montana where his sons fish, run and play. He tells them at times to stoop down and listen to the river. He says that beneath the river is the rocks, and beneath the rocks are the words. These words, he says to them, are the words of all creation.

God’s voice is everywhere, telling of an amazing love that cannot be stopped. It just doesn’t always come in the form we expect. In the first century, an entrance procession was customary. These parades would be accompanied by hymns and symbols that depicted the person of honor. In the case of Jesus, it was a colt and the tattered clothing that people threw on the road as he went by.

Mason Cooley said the rule of religion is that “purpose breathes even in dirt and stones.”

We stand at the cusp of a difficult and confusing week. All of Christianity comes together here: death/humiliation and life/exaltation.

For those early followers who witnessed Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem, everything rested on it – either God’s kingdom would be established on earth or their hope would be shattered. Jesus was the king of all who were oppressed and suffering. He shared their hardship, relieved their suffering, accepted them when everyone deemed them unacceptable, gave them hope and embodied God’s love for them. His entry into Jerusalem was a moment filled with fragile possibility.

It is hard to go on believing in God when life doesn’t give us what matters so dearly to us, but there is always danger when we attempt to chart a course for God. God was about to do something powerful and wonderful, but that day the disciples were looking for a different kind of king.

There is an old story about a man hiking in the mountains enjoying the beauty of the fall scenery. He stepped too close to the edge of the mountain and started to fall. In desperation, he reached out and grabbed the exposed root of a gnarled old tree on the side of the cliff. Terrified, he saw that he was about 50 feet down a sheer cliff and about 1000 feet from the floor of the canyon below, and just barely hanging on. If he lost his grip, he'd plummet to his death. He cried out repeatedly, "Help!" But there was no answer. Finally he yelled, "Is there anybody up there?" A voice replied, "Yes, I'm up here." "Who is it?" "It's the Lord." "Can you help me?" "Yes, I can help." "Then please help me!" "Let go. If you let go, then I will catch you." The man looked up, then back down at the canyon floor. "Is there anybody else up there?"

Jesus was not the kind of king they wanted, but he was what they had. He would save them beyond their capacity to imagine, He would bring them life and wholeness…he already had in profound ways. The people gathered and shouted praises. This man had healed them and cared for them. He had shown them a powerful love.

The Pharisees were threatened. They tell Jesus to quiet the crowd, but shushing an excited group of people welcoming the Messiah would not stop the eternally significant moment taking place. We cannot stop God’s love. Following Christ goes beyond words and spills out of our lives. We are living, breathing instruments of God’s grace.

Leonard Bernstein’s Mass says that “you cannot imprison the word of the Lord”. It is simply written into the fabric of creation bringing life and love to all. God’s purpose will be accomplished. One of the most beautiful illustrations of this is found in Isaiah 55:10-13: “For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it. For you shall go out in joy, and be led back in peace; the mountains and the hills before you shall burst into song, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress; instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle; and it shall be to the LORD for a memorial, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off.”

So often in the church, we act as if the story is over. We dust the cover of our Bible and open it to tell what happened long ago and far away. We miss God’s voice in our midst here and now. The United Church of Christ really captured this with their campaign called “God is still speaking”. Much of this campaign is based on a quote by Gracie Allen – “Never put a period where God has placed a comma”.

We stand on the edge peering into Holy Week. The story is not over…it is just beginning. The song of God’s great love for the world continues this day and into the week. But the song is not finished. It is powerful. It is ours. It belongs to all of creation. Do you hear it? All of creation cries out to sing of God’s great love. Let us join in the song and step into this devastating, yet hope-filled week.

Sermon Mark 11:1-11
Palm Sunday
St. Michael and All Angels
April 1, 2012

One of my favorite moments in the church year is the Palm Sunday processional. We begin outside and everyone gathers in close waiting for the signal to begin. There is confusion, chaos, crowding, and anticipation. Something wonderful is about to happen. We look around at the people gathered tentatively holding palm branches and wonder what is the purpose of this parade anyway?

I wonder if this is what the parade was like when Jesus rode a colt through Jerusalem. Were people crowded, confused, and lost in the chaos? Was there a sense of anticipation? Did they have any idea what that parade was about?

Palm Sunday is an odd day. We began this season with ashes to remind us of our mortality. We’ve prayed, reflected, taken on practices to help us walk more closely with Christ and now we stand in this threshold preparing for the culmination. We know that the days ahead bring death and darkness. But what do we do with today?

Many churches have given up Palm Sunday. Oh, they take a moment to read about the Palms and then they move straight into the Passion. Their rationale is that too many people won’t come to church during Holy Week and they don’t want them to miss Jesus’ death and go straight to the resurrection. I wonder if that’s the reason or if they are really not sure what to do with Palm Sunday so they just nod in that direction and head to the more familiar territory of the Passion. Thresholds can be awkward. We aren’t exactly in Lent, but we haven’t entered Holy week either. Is it a day when we look backward and forward at the same time? Or do we simply pause where we are and allow this moment to sink in with all its fullness?

The scripture is odd with few cues about what is really happening. Most of the verses we heard this morning describe Jesus’ preparation. Why did he spend so much energy getting ready for this parade? Only a few verses recount his entry into Jerusalem. It is a strange parade…honoring one who has healed, taught strange things about a God whose love is more important than the law, and continually challenged the established way of doing things. This Jesus who frees people is riding through town on a colt. There is nothing triumphal about this ride. People are shouting Hosanna, which means “save us”. They may not understand who he is, but somehow they know that he has the power to bring life and they throw their coats and branches on the road as if they are casting their lot with this strange Son of God.

I have wondered how we respond as we stand on the threshold this morning. We came singing into church. Some of us enthusiastically waved palm branches and some of us were embarrassed hoping this would be over quickly, but none of us were shouting save us. We really don’t know what to do with this parade so we slide into our pew and tuck our palm branch away until next year. Should we feel hope, despair, fear, certainty, or something else?

Perhaps this day is the day of both/and. It is the day of life and death. It is the day of hope and despair. It is the day of holding on and letting go. It invites us to embrace the tensions that make up our lives and remember that we are neither living nor dying; we are both.

You have heard many references this season to the book we are reading as a congregation Learning to Fall: The Blessings of an Imperfect Life by Philip Simmons. Philip powerfully embraces the tension of being fully human…of living and dying…as he comes to grips with Lou Gehrig’s disease and watches his body deteriorate. Somehow as he accepts that he is dying, he comes alive in powerful new ways. He says,

    “We also touch the Divine through our experience of nature, and in spring we
    celebrate the divine power of rebirth and renewal. Already the phoebes, after
    a journey unimaginable to me, have returned to their nest under the eaves out-
    side my bedroom window. Their presence renews my faith in the world’s extra-
    ordinary competence, its talent for winning against long odds. I breathe in the
    odor of wet earth and pines as though my sense of smell were being restored to
    me. All about us roots grip down and awaken. Sprouts nudge toward light and
    air. Everywhere the earth staggers to life.

    And yet the example of Jesus, and the experience of mud season, also remind
    me of a harsher truth: to be reborn, we first must die. The way to Jerusalem
    lies through mud. Dying, like mud, can take many forms, but every death, in
    the sense I mean, is a letting go. We let go of ambition, of pride, of ego. We
    let go of relationships, of perfect health, of loved ones who go before us to
    their own deaths. We let go of insisting that the world be a certain way.
    Letting go of any of these things can seem the failure of every design, the loss
    of every cherished hope. But in letting them go, we may also let go fear, let go
    our white-knuckled grip on a life that never seems to meet our expectations,
    let go our anguished hold on smaller selves our spirits have outgrown. We may
    feel at times that we have let go of life itself, only to find ourselves in a new
    one, freer, roomier, more joyful than we could have imagined. We need not
    believe that Jesus rose bodily from the dead to grasp the spiritual significance
    of such a resurrection.” (pp. 86-87)

Perhaps that is what we are doing here today…taking stock of the new life bursting around us in the most beautiful spring trees and flowers while preparing to let go of our grip on life so that we can walk with Jesus through these terrifying, devastating days. Isn’t that what we do each day? We breathe in a bit of beauty while hoping to release some of what stands in our way of being fully alive. It just happens that today the stakes are higher. Today it is the ultimate LIFE and DEATH not the little life and deaths that happen daily.

How do we navigate through this liminal time? We stand at the edge watching Jesus ride by as the crowd shouts “save us”. We shift our gaze to the one riding the colt. He has prepared for this moment and he knows the direction he is heading. Our eyes follow him as he slowly, humbly rides through this crowd and we listen for his voice. He is silent. Instead of looking around at the crowd, we take our cues from Jesus. Perhaps his silence is an invitation to stop, take stock, and listen more deeply. The movement toward the cross beckons us into quiet corners to prepare for death. We began this day waving palm branches and singing Hosanna. Now we fall in step beside the one silently riding by and we walk toward the cross.

This isn’t easy to do when we know how the story comes out. It is tempting to just take a breath and wait for it to all be over so we can sing Christ is Risen. But that doesn’t seem very faithful. Rather than holding out for the good news, we are living our full yes to Jesus by walking with him all the way to the cross.

The coming days will confront us with humanity at its worst and somehow in the midst of that, we will glimpse goodness when we wash one another’s feet on Thursday and stand with others at the cross on Friday. Together we watch and pray. We keep our eyes on Jesus and discover what to do next as we step into these holy days.

The look on one’s face can express many thoughts and emotions.  Happiness, sadness, anger or even love.  While Deacon Judith was reading the Gospel, I watched the look on your faces as you listened to this story that has been told every year for over 2000 years.  A story that is simultaneously so familiar and yet so distant.   

What look comes over your face when you hear of that amazing young Jewish man, who welcomed the outcast, loved everyone he met, touched the sick, embraced the lonely, is betrayed, tortured, hung on a cross, dies slowly, and then becomes life for each one of us.  

Do you look at the cross in wonder or has it become so familiar that it has become another symbol or even fashion design.  We wear it on vestments, necklaces, rings and earrings.  We have it tattooed; it sits atop buildings and even carved into headstones.  

After hearing that story, an instrument of torture that represented a excruciating death now becomes a simple symbol of hope, a symbol of God.  Think of it, how more telling can those two pieces of wood be.  Two beams, one vertical signifying the relationship between God and his creation; reaching out and reaching back.   

The horizontal beam signifying our relationship with one another, reaching toward the person next to you.  And the bottom, the rough worn out place where the wood of the cross touches the earth and radiates out into the world.  And at the center, where the two pieces converge is Christ, God and humanity tied together by love.    

This realization came into view a few weeks back in a conversation with a friend.  Mark prides himself in his independence, which includes independence from the Church.  Yet he needed someone to talk to.  I could see he had been crying.  He explained that he lost the love of his life due to a series of bad decisions on the part of both of them.  

He could not make sense of the pain, how something that had given him so much joy was now tearing at the depths of his being.  As he was leaving, he pointed to a small crucifixion in my office and with a look of despair on his face said “and tell me how that makes any sense?” God sends his son to suffer, all you church people are happy here in church, yet there are killings, wars, discrimination, tsunamis, people out there hurting one another.  I thought this was supposed to solve all that.  

At first I did not know what to say, was that cross the great eraser that is supposed to wipe away all the pain.  And then I thought of an article, that allowed me to remember the meaning of that cross, not as an eraser, but a healing balm.   

Brian Doyle wrote about a young girl named Isabel and Ms. Doyle was Isabel’s art teacher in the hospital.  Isabel was 4 years old when she got unbelievably sick. At 5 years old she stunningly wonderfully got well. When she was 6 years old she got even sicker than before and soon she died.

She was buried in a nearby cemetery so that her parents could be close.  Her coffin was small and when it was lowered into the ground, one of the ropes slipped and her coffin tilted.   Her baby brother burst out laughing and then he wept and wailed like a child has never wept before.

The author’s wife spent much of the previous year with Isabel in the Hospital.  As Isabel got sicker and endured oceans of pain and grew more swollen and weary by the day, his wife, the day before Isabel died sprawled on the grass, weeping like never before. She cried out – “Isabel is being crucified. Everything they do to her hurts. It's torture. Why do they torture her so? All little crucifixions.

Isabel just accepts it. She never complains. She has that look on her face.  She just stares at us with that stare from another planet. She gets crucified every day and no one can stop it. All the little children being crucified. I can't bear it anymore. They just look at me. Why does this happen? Why does this happen?”

As I told this story, Mark had this look on his face of compassion.  For one instant, it  seemed as if the images and pain of all the crucifixions in this world seemed to float through our collective thoughts.   All these tiny crucifixions in the world, Isabel, children killing each other because of gangs and drugs, loved ones who believe suicide is the only way out,  children sold into prostitution or how a precious child of close friends, is killed in his backyard this past week because he was tormented by schizophrenia.  

All these tiny crucifixions.  What could I say?  Some theological babble or psychological soothing?  Any word is insufficient.  How do I explain a mother watching her son be tortured and nailed to a cross and then holding him in her arms; there are no words for what she felt. A mother watches her daughter suffer in the hospital as she slowly dies, and she holds her in her arms and there are no words for how she feels.  How do I explain that tomorrow our friends will bury their precious son and as they touch his casket there are no words for how they feel.

We looked at that broken body on the cross, and the only word, the only look was that of love.  Love, the only explanation for the unexplainable. This nonsensical, illogical, unreasonable, insupportable, improvable conviction that one time a long time ago a thin young mysterious eloquent Jewish man was crucified and died and then he came alive again in a way that no one understood then and no one understands now.

God looking down, not wanting us to be alone, sharing in our journey in this world.  Understanding the tremendous pains and the indescribable joys of life.  God’s voice whispering "You are my creation and I know you well."  Because God, in Christ, not only knows us,  but has lived among us—has been one of us.  All because of a  look of love on Gods face, hoping that the love will be reflected in ours.  

And what is amazing is that if you really listen to this passion story, you will see your life reflected in that last week. In this story, God is closer to us, to our lives, than ever before, all our tiny crucifixions hung on his cross.   Think of it, friends loving us one minute, like the joy of Hosanna into Jerusalem and then deserting us in our desolate gardens.  Jesus life like ours, the struggle with brokenness, uncertainty, breaking bread with his friends, betrayal, jealousy, questioning God, fear, loneliness, abandonment, pain, suffering, crucifixion, darkness.   Yet, always transformation and a knowing of eternal hope.

This story of a young Jewish man nailed to a cross, a mother crying in pain, an empty tomb makes sense because we are reassured that God knows what it is like to be human.  The amazing, unbelievable story that we are loved by God, a loving who gave up a heavenly crown in order to wear a crown thorns.  All because God wanted to see that look of love on all of our faces, for each one of us to know that Easter is coming.

There is a poem that captures God desire to see the expression on our face:  Have you ever wondered why God gives so much?  We could exist on far less.  He could have left the world flat and gray; we wouldn’t have known the difference but he didn’t.  He splashed orange in the sunrise and cast the sky in blue.  And if you love to see geese as they gather, Chances are that you’ll see that too.

Did he have to make the squirrel’s tail furry? Was he obliged to make the birds sing?
And the funny way that chickens scurry Or the majesty of thunder when it rings?
Why give a flower a fragrance? Why give food its taste? Could it be that he loves to see that look upon your face.

God could of walked away and never allowed the divine to become human,  Why send his son to empty himself, and die on the cross.  But he did not, he loved the look on our face when we are happy, and sent his son.  Mark smiled and said, I guess I cannot explain love, so I guess that cross thing kinda makes sense.   

Somehow it does, because for all the tiny crucifixions, there is an understanding that a knowing God is with us, and understands.  There are no explanations only those beams that reach up and out.   So for Mark, Isabel, Christopher and others.  We cannot explain it, all we can do is tiptoe into Isabel's room, and spread out all the holy colors on her bed, and make her laugh, and sing her grace under duress.  

All we can do for Mark is walk with him as he takes those solitary steps into a new world.  All we do for Christopher’s mother is hold her hand as she tearfully says goodbye to her youngest son.   Because somehow, in ways we cannot explain, love conquers all. God has proven it with his son, and with Isabel and Christopher.  They will come alive again, each one of us will live again, and there will be a light, the light of Christ on all our faces for which there are no words, only a look of love.

*I would like to acknowledge Brian Doyle for his beautiful article “The Terrible Brilliance for the use of Isabel’s Story and Max Lucado for the poem.

St. Michael’s Episcopal Church 
Sunday March 28, 2010 Palm Sunday C
Preacher Christopher McLaren 
Text. Luke 18


Jesus is in the midst of the crowds of pilgrims making their way up the hill toward Jerusalem, surrounded by loud and joyful praises to God. He is traveling with his disciples who are in all likelihood a jumble of emotions, anxious about entering this Holy City as Jesus has been telling them of his coming suffering and death, excited to be in the band of pilgrims, and curious and joyful at the interaction of the crowds with Jesus. Luke’s telling of this story is spare, making but the slightest mention of the crowds, noting that they “kept spreading their cloaks on the road.” If we were to follow Luke’s Gospel it would be called “Cloak Sunday” instead of “Palm Sunday.” For Luke there are no Hosannas ringing, no green leafy branches in the mix of his narrative.

Jesus is a simple itinerant preacher coming into the big city from the country, coming into the heart of religious hostility as an outspoken reformer and critic of the religious institution of his own day.  But for a nobody from the backcountry of Galilee it all seems like a heroes welcome, a kind of ancient ticker-tape parade. Jesus, an unlikely recipient of this kind of lavish praise, rides through it like miracle itself, with a certain nonchalance on the back of a donkey, a symbol of humility and gentleness.  Evidently he has a tremendous reputation among the common people; his fame as a teacher, healer, holy man and prophet has spread like wildfire.  

The Religious leaders of the day are obviously unnerved by this strange political demonstration. They have brokered a fragile peace between the faith of Israel and the power of Imperial Rome. They do not want a common political fanatic like Jesus to endanger the alliance. So Jesus' critics the Pharisees plead with him, "Teacher order your disciples to stop." They want Jesus to tame the outburst, to tone down his entrance to quiet the crowds. Lest we think these politicos paranoid it is noteworthy that during Jesus' earthly life, scholars estimate that there were at least sixty armed rebellions against the Roman occupation forces. People waving palm branches and shouting was a threatening sign, particularly when they were shouting that there was a new king in town.
Upon receiving the demand that he tell his followers to be quiet, Jesus says something interesting on that first Palm Sunday: "I tell you if you could quiet down these people, the very stones would shout."  Nature itself would come to God’s aide. 

There is something about Jesus that can make even a rock want to shout.

So, amid the joyous shouts and praises of the people, Jesus silently plods into hostilities that will inevitably boil over during the High Holy days ahead in this ancient and numinous city with its magnificent Temple and storied history. 

This is a story about a small local parade in the midst of a whole city preparing to celebrate its most sacred feast.  The entrances to the city are jammed with pilgrims from all over.  The air is electric with expectation and the crowds that include Jesus’ disciples begin to direct their attention to Jesus whom Luke pictures as a gentle king arriving in the capital city with no sword in his hand, vulnerable to whatever his enemies will choose to do to him. Jesus the rabbi who taught non-violence, "Do not resist one who is evil,” seems ready to live by his own words and philosophy. He is the kind of king we would all like one that offers a different kind of kingdom, one in which peacefulness toward others even enemies is valued, economic justice for all is not only espoused but pursued, hospitality toward the immigrant and alien is normative, and one where forgiveness is woven into the fabric of relationships.

As the pilgrims climbed up the steep hill into the city they sang the the Psalms of ascent, ancient pilgrim songs.  Somehow in the commotion and emotion of entering the Holy City, Jesus’ entrance became significant for some in the crowd.  Jesus’ entrance into the city was understood by some as prophetic and provocative and by others as deeply hopeful.  Luke is a bit understated in his description, while some of the Gospel writers describe the whole scene as an uproar, as if this small-time preacher from Nazareth is really making a big splash in Jerusalem.  The words "Blessed is he who comes in the name of the lord" are not unusual as they were a typical line used by pilgrims greeting one another while attending a temple festivals.  

The challenge for us to is find ourselves identifying with those who were strewing their garments on the road in front of Jesus’ entourage.  What does it mean to pave the way for the chosen one of God?  What does it mean to throw your North Face Jacket in his path? Or to through your Anne Klein wrap in the mud. One’s cloak was a valuable item.  It was one’s protective covering against the elements and an essential garment. Is it a sign that you are committed to Christ way if you lay your Marmot Jacket on the ground for a donkey to step on. 

 The simple fact is that if we call Jesus our Lord, or see him as the blessed one of God, if we claim to desire to live like him and to be his representatives on earth, then what happened to him may indeed eventually happen to us.  To be a disciple, to be a follower of Jesus is to risk his same fate.  Of course it is easy to join him on the parade route, it is easy to get swept up in the enthusiasm of the crowds.  What is not easy is to realize that the way of Christ leads toward the cross.  To throw in your lot with this Jesus fellow is to know that true joy is to be found in losing ones life to find it “ in giving oneself away for the sake of others in such a way that newness of life is actually discovered in the process. 

Jesus rode into Jerusalem as a champion of sorts.  He was a peculiar man whose life was spent in ministry to those on the margins of society, those who were outcasts and ignored, those who had little status or clout.  Jesus ate dinner with sinners, thieves and prostitutes and slimy tax guys.  He wasn’t scared of what others thought about him.  He cared more about people and about their knowing a living and gracious God than he did about being respectable.  He dared to touch the unclean of his society: the lepers, the lame, the poor and the blind.  He bent and at times broke the religious rules in order to show that people were more important than any human traditions. He refused to keep women in their place by engaging them in conversation, honoring their intellect, and allowing them to be included in his ministry.  Jesus was constantly breaking down walls of division and opening the circle of God’s love a little bit wider.  He was aflame with the compassion and love of God and because of that he suffered.  

The facts are fairly conclusive.  If you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?  As our baptismal covenant proclaims, things will not always be easy for you.  The world will not like you, but God will love you.  To be sure you may suffer some pain or loss or rejection at the hands of those who wish that things could stay just the same, because they profit from them that way.  But you will find that you are joyful in heart because you have thrown in your lot with Christ.  You have joined him on his path, even if you know like Jesus knew that the way leads to the cross despite the hosannas along the way. We are all pilgrims in this place. The 60 or so pilgrims from St. Michael’s that will walk the healing way toward Chimayo this Good Friday represent all of us in our journey toward the Cross, the fertile and stretching destination that calls us to live like Jesus lived, no matter what the cost. The place where God’s grace and our desires can be transformed into loving service.  

So let us take to heart the advice of Andrew of Crete from long ago who said: 

It is ourselves that we must spread under Christ’s feet, not coats or lifeless branches or shoots of trees, matter which wastes away and delights the eye only for a few brief hours.  But we have clothed ourselves  with Christ’s grace, with the whole Christ “ "for as many has have been baptized into Christ have put on Christ" “ so let us spread ourselves like coats under his feet.” 
Andrew of Crete, 8th Cent. 

It is you that Christ wants this day not your clothing.  It is yourself that you can spread on the avenues and pathways of this world to help them become ways to God.  It is Christ’s grace working in your that you can spread in this world.  And don’t spread it thin, spread God’s love in thick and fertile ways along the roadways of humanity.  It is our lives in Christ that are to be strewn like splendid palm branches in this world that they might become the Lord’s path; a pathway of hope and healing, a pathway of ever-widening and demanding love.  It is a pathway that leads to the cross and beyond, for we know that the cross is not the end of the story, but the sight of God’s surprising triumph. 

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