Homily for Palm Sunday, Year A, 2011
Sunday, April 17th, 2011
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford ON
He enters in triumph, amidst shouts of “hosanna,” and is proclaimed as a great prophet, but the shouts of “hosanna” quickly give way to the cry of “crucify him!”, and to the derision that he should save himself if he is truly the son of God.” The dramatic sweep of Palm Sunday is summed up so eloquently and poignantly in the exhortation, “we follow him this week from the glory of the palms to the glory of the resurrection, by the way of the dark road of suffering and death.” And although our Lord told his followers again and again, that he was going to Jerusalem to suffer, although he told them again and again, that if they were to be his disciples they must take up their cross and follow him, time and again they could not see it. They chose not to believe it.
Who can really blame them, though, that they looked forward with joyful expectation? Who could blame them when they thought that Jesus would lead them in revolt and overthrow the oppressor who occupied their land? Even though he entered Jerusalem not as a mighty warrior king, but as a lowly king riding on the foal of a donkey, they chose not to see what they wanted not to see. They were looking for instant glory and oh, how their hopes were dashed.
Although this story is one that unfolds in a distant time and foreign place, in a world that seems unimaginable to us, is this story really any different from the story that unfolds before us, the story of our lives? Do we not hope for instant glory? Are we not prone to a sunny optimism about the world, and our lives before us?
This week I heard an interview on the CBC with an author who was speaking out against the myth of eternal youth, and how the post-war generation has somehow come to believe that aging can be beaten, and indeed that death can be beaten, that somehow we can and live forever, if only we buy the right anti-aging products, live to a certain standard, and have the right mindset. If we rebrand the word “Boomer” with “Zoomer” the inevitable reality of aging, and yes, of our eventual deaths, will suddenly disappear, no longer a possibility on the horizon of our existence, and we shall become the first generation of ageless immortals.
We may convince ourselves of this alternate reality, and even live in this alternate universe for a time, but what happens when reality breaks through the veil? What happens that phone call comes, what happens when we get tragic that tragic news about our own health or the health of a loved one? What happens when a cloud descends and blocks the rays of sunny optimism? What happens when the crown of gold is revealed to be a crown of thorns? What happens when “Hosanna to the king,” becomes “crucify him”?
And thus we find ourselves,when stark reality destroys the dream. We find ourselves fragile, we find ourselves alone, mournful, perhaps even angry, but most of all deeply vulnerable. When all our dreams are crucified, wherein shall we seek our hope? Has hope been destroyed?
We gaze upon the hope that is nailed to the tree and weep. We weep over our broken dreams, and we weep to think what we have lost. We weep over our foolishness in thinking that we might be masters of our fate, that we might somehow defeat death on our own, and we weep over our false pride, now a lifeless consolation.
In our vulnerability at the foot of the cross, we realize though, that those things that veiled our vision have fallen away. We come to see, and what is more, to feel, what it is to be truly human. In accessing our deepest pain, in beholding it nailed to the tree, we can at last let go of those thing which we have clung to out of fear, for they have been crucified with our Lord.
As the layers of protection against suffering and death with which we have clothed ourselves fall away into the mists of nothingness and we stand exposed, we contemplate the exposed figure on the cross, stripped, beaten, and lifeless. But he had no false layers to be cut away, nor did he have false dreams that needed to be broken. His vision was ever clear and he was ever meek and humble. His gentleness, his authenticity, his vulnerability was an offering that we might find these very things in ourselves and that our pride and vainglory might be unmasked.
In one short week we shall gather to share the rest of the story, and in between, journey together in the removal of the layers that we have placed upon ourselves to protect ourselves from pain and hurt. In one short week we shall know that to live forever does not mean cloaking ourselves from pain, from suffering and from death, but indeed, eternal life is embraced in the midst of the valley of the shadow of death. Eternal life, the resurrection from the dead, is found when we stand exposed at the foot cross and we behold true hope in the exposed lifeless figure, whom we know and believe shall live again.
c.2011, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Showing posts with label Palm Sunday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Palm Sunday. Show all posts
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Jerusalem, the City the Kills the Prophets - A Sermon for Palm Sunday, Year C, 2010
Sermon for Palm Sunday, Year C, 2010
Sunday, March 28th, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 24:1-43
One day, in the midst of his teaching ministry, some Pharisees approached Jesus to warn him that Herod wanted to kill him. He told them to send Herod this message, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! ... You will not see me until the times comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord’” (Luke 13:34,35). And with these words, he pressed on toward Jerusalem.
In time, the shouts of “Crucify! Crucify!” prevailed, Pilate handed the prisoner over to death, and Jesus was led to the place of crucifixion – flogged, beaten, stumbling. Then, a certain man, Simon of Cyrene, coming in from the countryside and crossing the path of those paraded to their death as he did on so many days, Simon was seized by the soldiers. Laying upon him the cross of this prisoner, they compelled him to carry it. As the beaten and flogged prisoner stumbled forward, Simon followed behind, slowly, under the weight of the timber pressing down on his back. Suddenly distracted by the clamour of the wailing of women beating their breasts and lamenting the fate of this one convict, Simon looked up. And as the shoulders of Jesus straightened and he turned his gaze at the women, the prisoner spoke these chastising words to the women who were already bewailing his death: “Weep not for me, you Daughters of Jerusalem. Hold yourselves in pity. Curse the day that you were born and curse the wombs by which you shall bear children.” Simon asked himself, what manner of man is this who curses those who lament his death? “Pity yourselves,” the prisoner continued, “bless the day of your own destruction for it will be a great relief to you. Don’t you see that if this fate falls upon an innocent man, what fate will fall upon you and all of this city who, guilty of such grievous sin, stand truly condemned?”
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!
The very day in which we live is a city that kills the prophets and persecutes those who are sent to it. Would any deny that we are in need of a prophetic voice? Would any, knowing the terrors of Armenia, Auschwitz, Hiroshima, Rwanda, and the hidden terrors known only to God, dare to deny that we stand in need of a prophetic word? Would any deny that even as we hear such a word, we fail to receive it? Do we dare, like Herod, ask for a sign, when so many have been given, or call for a word of prophecy when so many have already been uttered?
The women around Jesus knew of the prophets. They knew the story of Israel; they knew the story of Judah. They knew of the Babylonian captivity, they knew of the subsequent short-lived liberation. They knew of God’s wrath, and they knew of God’s compassion. But they could not read the signs of their times. They were aware of the prophets but they were not in tune with them.
And so it is for us, if not more so: Do we even know who the prophets are? Are we so persuaded by those whom the world calls important, and those whom the world calls wise that we are unaware of those whom upon God has granted the gift of prophecy in our age? Do we call upon God to help us discern the prophets of our age? Do we even care to know who they are?
Do we even care when God raises up prophets amongst us? When God raises up those who dare to speak the truth or utter a prophetic word, we make the choice not to listen -- to turn the channel. There are people who cry out about injustice, they cry out with the voice of God and the authority of God, and we feign interest, and more disturbingly, we feign lamentation when their prophecies come to pass. What is more, it is easy to lament them when they are persecuted because we do not believe that we persecute them. But, God help us, we do, through neglect, disrespect, negligence, false piety, feigned interest, self-centredness, and self-indulgence. Is it not much easier to lament the horror and then, turn each one of us, to our own way?
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!
As they reach the place of execution, Simon relieved of his burden, falls to the ground, exhausted, not only under the weight of the instrument of death, but under the weight of the condemnation of his city. There they crucify the prisoner. His cross is lifted high, and on either side of him are other criminals, each bringing to the moment of their death the weight of lives wasted and lives of unfulfilled hope and promise. Then, from the lips of the man in the centre, looking down on the crowds, the women, the soldiers, and even this man Simon, and out into the world, come these words: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.
Have any more beautiful or gracious words ever been spoken? To the one who betrayed me and turned me over to death: Father, forgive him. To those who shouted “Crucify him! Give us Barabbas!”: Father, forgive them. To the ones who slipped away under the darkness of night: Father forgive them. To the one who denied me; Father forgive him. To you soldiers who nail me to this tree; Father forgive them. To that man who carried this cross on which I am nailed, Father, forgive him. And to you, Daughters of Jerusalem, who kill the prophets and stone those whom God sends, Father forgive them. Father forgive them all, for they know not what they do.
But they do know what they do. They have heard the prophets, the voice of God has spoken to each one of them. Some of them followed him, some of them shared in his proclamation of the Kingdom. Many witnessed miracles and healings. Did even one of these stay with him? They knew what they did, and they were ashamed. But Jesus speaks these words, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!
And then, one man, his name lost to history, one man, a sinner, hanging upon the cross. “Lord,” he says, “I know the evil that I have done. I know that I am worthy of such a death, but you, Lord? Jesus, remember me, a sinner, when you come into your kingdom.”
And then our Lord spoke such words with such power as never before, such words that changed the course of our human history: “Today you will be with me in paradise.”
With those words, once spoken, the eyes of many a blind heart have been opened and the ears of many a deaf soul have received the word of salvation. With these words, the prophecy is fulfilled: How often I have desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood. One man was willing, one child of Jerusalem, and evil though he was, he threw himself humbly on the mercy of the crucified Lord. Blind to God’s prophets though he had been, deaf to God’s word, in a moment of grace he speaks the words: “Jesus, remember me.” And the words of life are spoken to him: “Truly, today you shall be with me in paradise.”
This then, is the good news of the gospel. Sinful sons and daughters of Jerusalem though we may be, we are heirs of the good thief, whom God called home though he was a grievous sinner. We are heirs to a promise and sons and daughters of the New Jerusalem. Though we are deaf to the prophets of God, God still desires to gather us under his wings as a mother hen broods over her children. Though we stone those who are sent to our city, Jesus still utters those gracious words, “Father forgive them” … although we know what we do.
God has sent us prophets. God has given us grace to hear the prophets. As he turned the heart of the good thief so he turns our hearts, giving and forgiving, opening our hearts to hear his word and giving us grace and power to not only hear but to act, and become prophets of the New Jerusalem. Faithful cross, the sign of triumph, now for us the noblest tree. For in the shadow of the cross, lit by the light of the resurrection, we have been transformed from sons and daughters of the old Jerusalem who wail and beat our breasts and feign lamentation for a prophet we have chosen not to hear into sons and daughters of the New Jerusalem, who at last have been gathered under the wings of God, and of whom this song is sung:
Rejoice greatly, O daughter Zion! Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem! Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Sunday, March 28th, 2010
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: Luke 24:1-43
One day, in the midst of his teaching ministry, some Pharisees approached Jesus to warn him that Herod wanted to kill him. He told them to send Herod this message, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! ... You will not see me until the times comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord’” (Luke 13:34,35). And with these words, he pressed on toward Jerusalem.
In time, the shouts of “Crucify! Crucify!” prevailed, Pilate handed the prisoner over to death, and Jesus was led to the place of crucifixion – flogged, beaten, stumbling. Then, a certain man, Simon of Cyrene, coming in from the countryside and crossing the path of those paraded to their death as he did on so many days, Simon was seized by the soldiers. Laying upon him the cross of this prisoner, they compelled him to carry it. As the beaten and flogged prisoner stumbled forward, Simon followed behind, slowly, under the weight of the timber pressing down on his back. Suddenly distracted by the clamour of the wailing of women beating their breasts and lamenting the fate of this one convict, Simon looked up. And as the shoulders of Jesus straightened and he turned his gaze at the women, the prisoner spoke these chastising words to the women who were already bewailing his death: “Weep not for me, you Daughters of Jerusalem. Hold yourselves in pity. Curse the day that you were born and curse the wombs by which you shall bear children.” Simon asked himself, what manner of man is this who curses those who lament his death? “Pity yourselves,” the prisoner continued, “bless the day of your own destruction for it will be a great relief to you. Don’t you see that if this fate falls upon an innocent man, what fate will fall upon you and all of this city who, guilty of such grievous sin, stand truly condemned?”
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!
The very day in which we live is a city that kills the prophets and persecutes those who are sent to it. Would any deny that we are in need of a prophetic voice? Would any, knowing the terrors of Armenia, Auschwitz, Hiroshima, Rwanda, and the hidden terrors known only to God, dare to deny that we stand in need of a prophetic word? Would any deny that even as we hear such a word, we fail to receive it? Do we dare, like Herod, ask for a sign, when so many have been given, or call for a word of prophecy when so many have already been uttered?
The women around Jesus knew of the prophets. They knew the story of Israel; they knew the story of Judah. They knew of the Babylonian captivity, they knew of the subsequent short-lived liberation. They knew of God’s wrath, and they knew of God’s compassion. But they could not read the signs of their times. They were aware of the prophets but they were not in tune with them.
And so it is for us, if not more so: Do we even know who the prophets are? Are we so persuaded by those whom the world calls important, and those whom the world calls wise that we are unaware of those whom upon God has granted the gift of prophecy in our age? Do we call upon God to help us discern the prophets of our age? Do we even care to know who they are?
Do we even care when God raises up prophets amongst us? When God raises up those who dare to speak the truth or utter a prophetic word, we make the choice not to listen -- to turn the channel. There are people who cry out about injustice, they cry out with the voice of God and the authority of God, and we feign interest, and more disturbingly, we feign lamentation when their prophecies come to pass. What is more, it is easy to lament them when they are persecuted because we do not believe that we persecute them. But, God help us, we do, through neglect, disrespect, negligence, false piety, feigned interest, self-centredness, and self-indulgence. Is it not much easier to lament the horror and then, turn each one of us, to our own way?
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!
As they reach the place of execution, Simon relieved of his burden, falls to the ground, exhausted, not only under the weight of the instrument of death, but under the weight of the condemnation of his city. There they crucify the prisoner. His cross is lifted high, and on either side of him are other criminals, each bringing to the moment of their death the weight of lives wasted and lives of unfulfilled hope and promise. Then, from the lips of the man in the centre, looking down on the crowds, the women, the soldiers, and even this man Simon, and out into the world, come these words: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.
Have any more beautiful or gracious words ever been spoken? To the one who betrayed me and turned me over to death: Father, forgive him. To those who shouted “Crucify him! Give us Barabbas!”: Father, forgive them. To the ones who slipped away under the darkness of night: Father forgive them. To the one who denied me; Father forgive him. To you soldiers who nail me to this tree; Father forgive them. To that man who carried this cross on which I am nailed, Father, forgive him. And to you, Daughters of Jerusalem, who kill the prophets and stone those whom God sends, Father forgive them. Father forgive them all, for they know not what they do.
But they do know what they do. They have heard the prophets, the voice of God has spoken to each one of them. Some of them followed him, some of them shared in his proclamation of the Kingdom. Many witnessed miracles and healings. Did even one of these stay with him? They knew what they did, and they were ashamed. But Jesus speaks these words, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!
And then, one man, his name lost to history, one man, a sinner, hanging upon the cross. “Lord,” he says, “I know the evil that I have done. I know that I am worthy of such a death, but you, Lord? Jesus, remember me, a sinner, when you come into your kingdom.”
And then our Lord spoke such words with such power as never before, such words that changed the course of our human history: “Today you will be with me in paradise.”
With those words, once spoken, the eyes of many a blind heart have been opened and the ears of many a deaf soul have received the word of salvation. With these words, the prophecy is fulfilled: How often I have desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood. One man was willing, one child of Jerusalem, and evil though he was, he threw himself humbly on the mercy of the crucified Lord. Blind to God’s prophets though he had been, deaf to God’s word, in a moment of grace he speaks the words: “Jesus, remember me.” And the words of life are spoken to him: “Truly, today you shall be with me in paradise.”
This then, is the good news of the gospel. Sinful sons and daughters of Jerusalem though we may be, we are heirs of the good thief, whom God called home though he was a grievous sinner. We are heirs to a promise and sons and daughters of the New Jerusalem. Though we are deaf to the prophets of God, God still desires to gather us under his wings as a mother hen broods over her children. Though we stone those who are sent to our city, Jesus still utters those gracious words, “Father forgive them” … although we know what we do.
God has sent us prophets. God has given us grace to hear the prophets. As he turned the heart of the good thief so he turns our hearts, giving and forgiving, opening our hearts to hear his word and giving us grace and power to not only hear but to act, and become prophets of the New Jerusalem. Faithful cross, the sign of triumph, now for us the noblest tree. For in the shadow of the cross, lit by the light of the resurrection, we have been transformed from sons and daughters of the old Jerusalem who wail and beat our breasts and feign lamentation for a prophet we have chosen not to hear into sons and daughters of the New Jerusalem, who at last have been gathered under the wings of God, and of whom this song is sung:
Rejoice greatly, O daughter Zion! Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem! Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.
c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Silence and Noise: A Homily for Palm Sunday
Homily for Palm Sunday, Year A, 2008
Sunday, March 16th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: St. Matthew’s Passion Narrative; Philippians 2:5-11
Silence and noise. These two opposites tug at us in our hearing of the Passion According to St. Matthew. On the one hand, there are those who mock our Lord; there are those who deride him; there are those who have much to say about the man hanging on the cross. They speak as if they understand all things, self-righteously pontificating with self-assurance. On the other hand, there are those who stand by quietly, not speaking, not commenting, not editorializing; rather, simply participating in the drama as it unfolds, exhibiting a different sort of righteousness – the faithfulness of discipleship. Noise and silence.
From the earliest moments of St. Matthew’s gospel, it has been the purpose of the Evangelist to teach us about what it means to be a true disciple; what it means to be righteous. But righteousness may not mean exactly what we think it does. No, for in the opening chapters of St. Matthew, we learn of Joseph, a righteous man, who would do the right thing and put away his wife Mary for her alleged infidelity. This would have been the righteous thing. Instead, God directs him on a different path, the path of gentleness, the path of compassion, a path in which he opened himself to ridicule by others – the path of self-offering and self-giving.
And so it is time and time again for St. Matthew. Righteousness is not what we think it is. Consider the temptations of Jesus, as well as the Sermon on the Mount, in each of these stories we learn that righteousness is not about following the right code, but the giving over of self in order that the heavenly kingdom might come on earth.
In the final moments of Jesus’ earthly life, we are witness to this ultimate self-offering. He is accused of being unrighteous, of being a blasphemer, but nothing can be further from the truth. To the accusations leveled against him, he makes no pretense to greatness. As palms and garments are thrown before him acclaiming him king, he comes riding not on a white stead but on a lowly donkey. To the question: “Are you the Messiah?”, comes the self-effacing reply, “You have said so.” As soldiers, thieves and passersby mock him, the noise becomes deafening: “If you are indeed God’s son save yourself; you saved others!” Amidst the noise truth is indeed spoken, albeit ironically, mockingly: He is the king, the Messiah, the Son of God. Ironically, they speak the truth, only they know not of what they speak.
In the shadows stands the one who could speak the truth, the one who acclaimed him as God’s Son. But Peter refuses to step into the light, choosing to remain in the shadows of the flickering fire, denying his Lord. From his lips comes the deafening noise of denial.
Noise and Silence.
Through his condemnation and through his lengthy execution, our Lord spoke but a few words. Amidst the deafening noise of the accusations and taunting, he chose not to acclaim the glory that was indeed his, but took up his cross in order that the righteousness of God might be fulfilled. He took up his cross so that in vulnerability we might find strength, in hopelessness we might see hope, so that in death we might know resurrection.
It is common for us to think of this as a lonely journey in which Jesus was abandoned. It seems all the lonelier due to the incessant noise made by those around the silent Messiah who is led like a lamb to the slaughter. And yet, if we examine the narrative more closely, if we delve into the silence, we recognize that our Lord is not alone. There are others that stand with him, silently, oh so silently, but they also stand with him, faithfully, oh so faithfully. A man name Simon, a Cyrenean, was compelled to carry our Lord’s cross. Does he, like Peter (another Simon) abdicate his responsibility? Does he announce that he does not know the man? Does he refuse? No. Without voice or word he takes up his Lord’s cross and follows him, providing not only respite for a doomed man, but a model of discipleship for all time.
And if we extend today’s narrative a paragraph further than we read this morning, we learn of “many women, looking on from a distance; who had followed him all the way from the Galilee, having provided for him.” Like the angels who came to minister to him after his desert temptation, so these faithful women, not least being Mary Magdalene, Mary mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of the Zebedees, stood with him, silently during his final moments. Unlike the men who ran away, who could not watch and pray even for an hour, they stayed and prayed, silently, oh, so silently. Yet, their silence would not remain silence. For simply by being there they became the first faithful witnesses to the saving act of God. While others mocked and derided, in their silence these women watched and prayed. They would be the first to proclaim him risen from the dead; they would be the first to believe; they would be the first apostles of the Resurrection. In their compassion, ministering to him faithfully and consistently from the foundation of his mission, to this his final moments, they teach us what it means to be true disciples of Jesus. They did not run and in the fullness of time, their silence turns to proclamation.
And finally, if we read but another paragraph further, we hear of another selfless man, another Joseph (take note), who like the first Joseph, at great expense and risk to himself, in order to offer loving care to the women around Jesus took a brave and courageous step of compassion. He went quietly to Pilate and asked for the body, which he placed in his own tomb: A quiet, courageous man of some means and position in his society who quietly risked it all to do the right thing -- a model of discipleship.
Silence and Noise.
A generation later, St. Paul wrote, “If I speak in the tongues of mortals and angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.” And in today’s epistle Paul sings an ancient hymn about our Lord who “though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave…even unto death on a cross.”
Jesus came not as one with an army or fiery sword. He came as a servant. It is the servant king who redeems us, who brings us to new life, who offers us hope in the midst of our sorrow. This is the righteousness of which St. Matthew speaks. It is not the righteousness of Law, or rule, or doctrine, or forms of worship. No. It is the righteousness of Love, compassion, gentleness, and self-offering. Everything else has the potential to become a clanging cymbal or a noisy gong. The most righteous men of the day put our Lord to death. The most righteous of the disciples denied him in the moment of truth. The most righteous did the wrong thing for the right reason. But there were others who in silent love, silent compassion, silent self-giving followed their lord through the trials of the cross to the glory of the resurrection.
As participants in the Passion of our Lord we find ourselves confronted with a choice. Shall we choose to cling to the noise of our own self-righteousness or shall we choose the silence of eternity interpreted by love? Should we choose the silence, we shall indeed find that we have a voice, a voice that proclaims louder than any clanging cymbal the still small voice of calm. We shall find the voice that in humility hopes all things, bears all things, believes all things, and endures all things. Like the women around Jesus we shall find our voice and it shall be the voice of our Lord that in thought, word and deed, proclaims a love so great, so divine that it demands our souls, our lives, our all.
Copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or resdistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
Sunday, March 16th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: St. Matthew’s Passion Narrative; Philippians 2:5-11
Silence and noise. These two opposites tug at us in our hearing of the Passion According to St. Matthew. On the one hand, there are those who mock our Lord; there are those who deride him; there are those who have much to say about the man hanging on the cross. They speak as if they understand all things, self-righteously pontificating with self-assurance. On the other hand, there are those who stand by quietly, not speaking, not commenting, not editorializing; rather, simply participating in the drama as it unfolds, exhibiting a different sort of righteousness – the faithfulness of discipleship. Noise and silence.
From the earliest moments of St. Matthew’s gospel, it has been the purpose of the Evangelist to teach us about what it means to be a true disciple; what it means to be righteous. But righteousness may not mean exactly what we think it does. No, for in the opening chapters of St. Matthew, we learn of Joseph, a righteous man, who would do the right thing and put away his wife Mary for her alleged infidelity. This would have been the righteous thing. Instead, God directs him on a different path, the path of gentleness, the path of compassion, a path in which he opened himself to ridicule by others – the path of self-offering and self-giving.
And so it is time and time again for St. Matthew. Righteousness is not what we think it is. Consider the temptations of Jesus, as well as the Sermon on the Mount, in each of these stories we learn that righteousness is not about following the right code, but the giving over of self in order that the heavenly kingdom might come on earth.
In the final moments of Jesus’ earthly life, we are witness to this ultimate self-offering. He is accused of being unrighteous, of being a blasphemer, but nothing can be further from the truth. To the accusations leveled against him, he makes no pretense to greatness. As palms and garments are thrown before him acclaiming him king, he comes riding not on a white stead but on a lowly donkey. To the question: “Are you the Messiah?”, comes the self-effacing reply, “You have said so.” As soldiers, thieves and passersby mock him, the noise becomes deafening: “If you are indeed God’s son save yourself; you saved others!” Amidst the noise truth is indeed spoken, albeit ironically, mockingly: He is the king, the Messiah, the Son of God. Ironically, they speak the truth, only they know not of what they speak.
In the shadows stands the one who could speak the truth, the one who acclaimed him as God’s Son. But Peter refuses to step into the light, choosing to remain in the shadows of the flickering fire, denying his Lord. From his lips comes the deafening noise of denial.
Noise and Silence.
Through his condemnation and through his lengthy execution, our Lord spoke but a few words. Amidst the deafening noise of the accusations and taunting, he chose not to acclaim the glory that was indeed his, but took up his cross in order that the righteousness of God might be fulfilled. He took up his cross so that in vulnerability we might find strength, in hopelessness we might see hope, so that in death we might know resurrection.
It is common for us to think of this as a lonely journey in which Jesus was abandoned. It seems all the lonelier due to the incessant noise made by those around the silent Messiah who is led like a lamb to the slaughter. And yet, if we examine the narrative more closely, if we delve into the silence, we recognize that our Lord is not alone. There are others that stand with him, silently, oh so silently, but they also stand with him, faithfully, oh so faithfully. A man name Simon, a Cyrenean, was compelled to carry our Lord’s cross. Does he, like Peter (another Simon) abdicate his responsibility? Does he announce that he does not know the man? Does he refuse? No. Without voice or word he takes up his Lord’s cross and follows him, providing not only respite for a doomed man, but a model of discipleship for all time.
And if we extend today’s narrative a paragraph further than we read this morning, we learn of “many women, looking on from a distance; who had followed him all the way from the Galilee, having provided for him.” Like the angels who came to minister to him after his desert temptation, so these faithful women, not least being Mary Magdalene, Mary mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of the Zebedees, stood with him, silently during his final moments. Unlike the men who ran away, who could not watch and pray even for an hour, they stayed and prayed, silently, oh, so silently. Yet, their silence would not remain silence. For simply by being there they became the first faithful witnesses to the saving act of God. While others mocked and derided, in their silence these women watched and prayed. They would be the first to proclaim him risen from the dead; they would be the first to believe; they would be the first apostles of the Resurrection. In their compassion, ministering to him faithfully and consistently from the foundation of his mission, to this his final moments, they teach us what it means to be true disciples of Jesus. They did not run and in the fullness of time, their silence turns to proclamation.
And finally, if we read but another paragraph further, we hear of another selfless man, another Joseph (take note), who like the first Joseph, at great expense and risk to himself, in order to offer loving care to the women around Jesus took a brave and courageous step of compassion. He went quietly to Pilate and asked for the body, which he placed in his own tomb: A quiet, courageous man of some means and position in his society who quietly risked it all to do the right thing -- a model of discipleship.
Silence and Noise.
A generation later, St. Paul wrote, “If I speak in the tongues of mortals and angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.” And in today’s epistle Paul sings an ancient hymn about our Lord who “though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave…even unto death on a cross.”
Jesus came not as one with an army or fiery sword. He came as a servant. It is the servant king who redeems us, who brings us to new life, who offers us hope in the midst of our sorrow. This is the righteousness of which St. Matthew speaks. It is not the righteousness of Law, or rule, or doctrine, or forms of worship. No. It is the righteousness of Love, compassion, gentleness, and self-offering. Everything else has the potential to become a clanging cymbal or a noisy gong. The most righteous men of the day put our Lord to death. The most righteous of the disciples denied him in the moment of truth. The most righteous did the wrong thing for the right reason. But there were others who in silent love, silent compassion, silent self-giving followed their lord through the trials of the cross to the glory of the resurrection.
As participants in the Passion of our Lord we find ourselves confronted with a choice. Shall we choose to cling to the noise of our own self-righteousness or shall we choose the silence of eternity interpreted by love? Should we choose the silence, we shall indeed find that we have a voice, a voice that proclaims louder than any clanging cymbal the still small voice of calm. We shall find the voice that in humility hopes all things, bears all things, believes all things, and endures all things. Like the women around Jesus we shall find our voice and it shall be the voice of our Lord that in thought, word and deed, proclaims a love so great, so divine that it demands our souls, our lives, our all.
Copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or resdistributed, either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.
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