Feb 18 2019 Mark 1: 1-11

Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut in the fields.

And so it begins. For liturgical Christians, or those who follow the prescribed readings and church calendar, this is a familiar passage. It is the story of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, with people waving their leafy branches, sometimes translated as palms. This is the reading that undergirds our Palm Sunday service, the Sunday before Easter.

A little set up is useful. Jesus has been repeatedly telling his disciples that he’ll go to Jerusalem, be tortured and executed by the authorities. And here is his entering into Jerusalem. I can imagine that the disciples are less than thrilled. Meanwhile, the occupied and oppressed people of Jerusalem are awaiting their Messiah, the one who will save them from the horrible Roman occupation. Jesus, they’ve heard, is that Messiah. As a result, they cheer wildly as he enters. Woo hoo! 
We who’ve heard the story, or have lived through a Holy Week are also a little uncomfortable by the celebratory cries of the people. It’s a little awkward. If they only knew.

18 months ago, my father-in-law died in my home. We knew his death was imminent, so there were four generations of family, along with friends, 15 people in all. His wife of 62 years was there, holding his hand. With her dementia, she knew who everyone was in the room, but I believe only sometimes remembered why we were all there. When she remembered, her grief was palpable and brand new, every time.

A dear priest friend had given last rites, and we’d all offered our blessings on him, as we gathered around and touched him. In his last moments, we started singing. We sang the song he and his wife had sung their kids, who’d sung to their kids, who’d sung to their kids – many of whom were sitting in the room. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. After two verses, we moved to Amazing Grace.  His wife was holding his hand, a little in front of him, so she couldn’t see as the life drained from his face.

She’d forgotten what was happening, and she was singing with a happy, gleeful gusto, and a beautiful voice, while all of the rest of us were trying to hold it together. It felt a little awkward, all that happiness and cheerfulness. But during that moment, my discomfort changed to peace. Of all of us choking back tears and sobs, as he died, the voice most clear and loud was his loving wife, singing something very familiar, very comforting, very loving. He died during Amazing Grace.

For us in that room, and for the disciples during that “triumphal entry”, it’s not about us, or our feeling awkward at the irony. Joy is joy. And happiness is good, even if I know better, even if I know the rest of the story.

In our tradition, there’s a service of prayer normally done in the late evening, around 9:00. It includes a prayer from Augustine of Hippo, from the 4th Century. It includes the line “shield the joyous”. I’ve often wondered what that’s about. I think this is it. Joy is joy. Triumphal cries and palms should be joyous. Don’t rain on their parade. The happy songs at a husband’s death aren’t demented, or awkward. They’re joyous. Let me always let happiness be happiness and joy be joy.