"A Reason to Smile"

Pastor Nagle
03/20/2005

“A Reason to Smile” Matthew 21:1-11 The Sixth Sunday of Lent March 20, 2005
“A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road.” So said Matthew, as he reported on what happened that day when Jesus arrived to celebrate the Passover in Jerusalem. We’ve gotten so used to that parade story that we’ve called the day Palm Sunday. We even spend money to import palm branches from Texas to get us in the mood of copying the early disciples. But only sort of in the mood. We don’t actually distribute the palms until the end of church because we’re afraid that people will fidget and play with them during the sermon, or start to strip off those stringy things and get them all over the carpet. Or that if we wave them around too much, some little kid will put an eye out. So in the best sense of double-speak, we say we celebrate Palm Sunday, but we do it in a far more sedate way than the original crowd did. Which may be a characteristic of life and the church and our theology. A characteristic of it and a problem with it. That we’re entirely too serious. About lots of things. So that if there’s a message today, maybe it’s this— we need to lighten up. Which is not something about which we all will agree.
I remember when I was maybe ten years old. It was an evening Lenten service, dark and proper. Daddy was in the pulpit, Mother was in the choir loft, I was in the front row with a friend of mine who somehow got me tickled. I don’t remember if it was something he said or did, but I started to smile, which led to a giggle and a rather small shaking of the shoulders. Which I tried to stop—it being Lent, for heaven’s sake. But despite the glare of my earthly father (who must have been as upset as my heavenly father) I couldn’t stop. I will say that later that night, I was not in as happy a mood. I wonder if something like that ever happened to you. Not that the preacher sees you giggling and passing notes during the sermon, but who was it who told you that “this is church, so stop smiling.” “This is God’s house, so stop running around.” “This is Jesus’ parade, so stop waving those palms. And pick up your cloak. Good gracious, if you put your cloak on the ground, that donkey is going to walk on it. Or worse. Do you think good cloaks grow on trees? And don’t even think about cutting down more palm branches. It ruins the shape of the tree. And if someone happens to say to you, Hosanna, you just say, And also with you.”
My hidden camera records that thirteen per cent of you smiled at that, but that a significant number of you did not. And more than a few said, Have you forgotten that today is Passion Sunday? No, I haven’t forgotten at all. Today is one of those two-fers. Two for one. It’s both Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday. The beginning of Holy Week, Jesus’ last week, the occasion of his betrayal and denial, arrest and death. Which, admittedly, is dark and serious stuff. But in the church, it used to be that at the beginning of this solemn time, almost to the end of dark and purple Lent, we had at least this one day to lighten up. But then someone thought it was far more fitting to spend the time getting in the mood for what follows. Which, in their eyes, meant being solemn and somber. Because, according to some people, what follows Palm Sunday is Holy Week. And they’re right, of course. But isn’t it also true that what follows Palm Sunday is Easter? Though some people think you can have a good Easter only after you’ve endured an awful Holy Week. Sort of like hitting your head because it feels so good when you stop. Maybe even hitting your head with a cross.
Which is not to deny that Jesus suffered. Which is not to say that he didn’t die. But that we can say with delight more than sadness, how wonderful that he did. How inexplicably wonderful that he did. But if it seems right, proper and necessary that we should exercise due solemnity, let’s just do it for awhile, and not make a habit of it. What kind of homes did some of us come from, that we don’t understand how to lighten up? Why do we always associate religion with harshness, and the church with strictness? Why do we count it as our faithful assignment from God to investigate people’s lives to check how dirty their cloaks are? Why do we look at palm branch cutters as vandals rather than celebrants? And whose idea was it to keep more people out of heaven than we admit in? For that matter, who ever figured that we had a part in that at all? Have you noticed that any publicity the church gets these days is based more on our darkness than our light, on our standards more than our joy, on our fights more than our parties?
Yes, today is the beginning of Holy Week. Yes, we’re five days away from remembering the gory way the Romans executed people. Yes, we’re draped in purple soon to be black. And yes, ours is truly an awful world. Yes, we know who are sick, even to death. Yes, there are people close and far off who lack even the basics we take for granted. Yes, there are people who do vile things to themselves and others. Yes, God gave Moses ten commandments. Yes, Paul asked us to take seriously our relationship with God. Yes, and when I ask you to lighten up, I’m in a minority—but you know, if we’d fully accept and believe in what we truly know is the end of the story, maybe the way we tell the story would be different, with the result that other people’s life stories would be different too. Truly, there are more people outside the church this day than are inside it, partly—even mostly—because of our solemnity, our intention to emphasize sin and our reluctance to live with joy. Those absent people already know they have sometimes done too little and often done too much. Whether they intend it that way or not, whether others have gotten them that way or not, there are people all around us who suffer shame and indignity and the separation that results from it. People who suffer pain in their bodies and hearts and minds. Who are so down they can’t even imagine up. People who suffer in uncounted ways. But you and I are the ones who can end that suffering. But it’s a choice on our part, whether or not to lighten up. We can either say to people, You made your awful bed; now lie in it. Or we can let them start life all over again. We can sniff at their dirty cloaks or we can walk with them anyway. Or even give them our own cloaks. If we wouldn’t mind getting them dirty. Even when it’s obvious that the place we lay them means that they will get dirty.
And someone says, if you think the church is going to smile at sinners, and lay cloaks in front of asses, and laugh with the dying, or make light of our God, you’re wrong. And you’re unfaithful, theologically incorrect, a discredit to the church, and an idiot besides. And maybe I am. Over the years, more than one person has told me that, as they left this congregation for more holy fields. But St. Paul said that we should be fools for Christ, though maybe he meant something slightly different. But see, that shouldn’t bother us, that someone would accuse us of idiocy, because the foundation of our faith, the very thing we believe, is idiocy. And always has been. Imagine, God bringing the dead back to life. It’s absolutely, well, ludicrous. And though that has been the theme throughout this Lenten season, it was especially so in our readings last Sunday. Do you remember that the first story then was a tale about dead bones? The people of Israel portrayed as a pile of dead bones. But when the prophet proclaimed the word of the Lord to them, they came together and danced about. And if you had been present, what would your reaction have been? Would you have clapped your hands and laughed out loud, or would you have organized the bones into some order. Or asked them to not rattle so much. Or have them sign a faith statement saying that they’d never dry up again. And do you remember that last week’s gospel story was that long one about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead? That four days after the man had died, Jesus arrived and brought him back to life. That he called him out of the tomb and brought him back to life. If you had been present then, what would your reaction have been? With a perfectly straight face, would you have soberly said, Thank you Jesus for doing such a good job? Or instructed Lazarus to go and clean up because he smelled so bad, and looked even worse. Or at his appearance, would you have hooted and hollered and jumped up and down. Even waved a palm branch. Cut down and waved palm branches until someone complained and told you to stop it.
Which, by the way, is what the church does so well. We say, Stop it, as if any joy we exhibit would be an affront to God. But I ask, how could it be an affront to God? With the dry bones and with Lazarus, he started it all, didn’t he? Why not hoot and holler, and wave a branch or two? What was dead is alive. Should we have a problem with that? I’ll share this with you—with retirement just ahead, can you guess what I’ll miss and what I won’t? Do you know what I wish the future here will be like? Oh, I know right from wrong, and always have. But it’s a lot more fun rejoicing in God getting me right than in hearing other people telling me how I’m wrong. Over the years, we’ve experienced together some of those difficult and divisive times. Over the years, I’ve watched people take sides on who should be allowed to use the building, and whether we could afford that much electricity, and whether it’s proper to use a snappy song in worship, or allow jeans instead of a suit. And we’ve tried to figure out if it’s a waste of resources to supply new cloaks to people who would just get them dirty, or a waste of money to buy new palms for people to wave. Sometimes, the decisions we made were up-lifting, and we banded together in unity. Sometimes, our arguments were so fierce and our relationships so strained that we separated into camps that refused to talk with each other, let alone smile.
On that first Palm Sunday, do you suppose Jesus smiled? Most people would say no— considering the man was five days away from death. But you know, when you see the benefits of what lies ahead, when you see what good it can provide, when you understand that it’s all about life, that even when you lose your own, it’s about life for others, do you think it’s just possible that Jesus smiled? And if he did, do you think you and I can lighten up too? To know that the church’s calendar is an artificial thing, and that Easter has already happened. And to know and proclaim that the Lord has already been raised from the dead. Which means that we have been freed from the clutches of death. Which also means we can offer that same gift to other people, and be glad when they accept it. And joyfully keep on with them even if they haven’t accepted it the same way we have. Why the dark outlook? Jesus was the Savior of the world, not some squinty-eyed hall monitor. And he told us there would be joy in heaven when people like us stop worrying about cloaks and palm branches and the people who we think misuse them, and when instead we celebrate the giving of another chance. Another lively chance.
It’s true, of course, that there are sad times and somber times, and harsh times and threatening times, and sinful times and uncertain times. It’s obvious to all that this is not the world that God created. But it is most certainly the world that God saved. And if we believe that God is in control, and I say that anyone who can defeat even the power of death is definitely in control, then there will always be good times and a reason to smile. That even in bad times, there will always be good times and a reason to smile. By God, we’re Christians. How could there not be good times and a reason to smile?
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Blessed is he who believes in the name of the Lord. Blessed is he who delights in the name of the Lord. And also with you.