Some of my earliest confused memories about church come from Palm Sunday. The music and readings star all exuberant. “All glory, laud and honor to thee redeemer king. To whom the lips of children made sweet Hosanna’s ring!” People waving their palm fronds, laying their cloaks in the road for the king to come in. In church, we’d wave our palm branches, or tickle the person in front of us, or make them into the tiniest palm crosses we could.
But then.
But then, we’d read the Passion, the story of Jesus’ betrayal, trial, torture and execution. Wait, what? As a kid, I didn’t understand how we could go from one to the other so quickly.
It turns out, the blistering pace is a little contrived. It used to be that the faithful would gather on Palm Sunday and celebrate Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem with processions, palms, and sweet ringing Hosanna’s. Then they’d proceed to church at least two other times before Easter Sunday morning, with a Thursday night service commemorating the Last Supper and Jesus washing the feet of his disciples. At the end of Thursday, the altar is stripped, and people would sit vigil in a chapel overnight, as Jesus had asked his disciples to do. Friday, was the somber service of his death on the cross. After all of that, people would arrive to Saturday night or Sunday morning to celebrate his resurrection.
But modern life got in the way, and people would go to Palm Sunday, waving palms and cheering, and not see the church until Jesus’ resurrection a week later. Without having gone through the full darkness of the week’s story, the thought was that people we missing the full light of the resurrection. So the church appended the passion reading on to the Palm Sunday service. That way, if people only came Sunday and Sunday, they’d at least get the whole story once.
While it’s a constructed one-day pace, even when it’s drawn out over the whole week, this final week is tumultuous, with very high highs, and very low lows. It could make your head spin.
And while Jesus’ last week was pretty extreme, life is also full of tumultuous highs and lows, too. Covid infections and deaths are growing exponentially. The damage to the economy and social systems is unspeakable. Spring flowers are blooming, and we’re all stuck inside. In my house, I’ve driven to the psychiatric hospital three times in the past five days, and my sick loved one is miserable.
I had a friend who handled life’s highs and lows with a simple clause: for now. Covid is scary, for now. My loved one is horribly unhappy, for now. It is beautiful and sunny outside, for now. In my better moments, I remember her phrase. It moderates the high-highs and low-lows, by reminding me that whatever it is I’m going through is not forever, and makes the hard times more bearable, and the wonderful times more cherished.
Jesus cam in to Jerusalem to wild cheers. The people were happy with him. For a time. Then they were very angry with him, he was tortured and laid in a tomb. For a time. He returned to earth after his resurrection, for a time. And eventually ascended to God.
This morning, I’m thinking about the impermanence of everything on earth, compared to the eternity of everything holy. God always has been, and always will be. Forever. My life is sometimes hard, for now. And glorious, for now. Jesus’ time on earth was ever-changing, and impermanent. Palm Sunday and Holy week are full of extreme events resulting in extreme emotions. So is my life. I just need to remember that it’s all fleeting and impermanent. But God’s love is not.
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