On Tuesday morning,
sixty children used scissors and sellotape to transform piles of newspaper into
palm branches: the rustling was noisy and effectively conjured up something of
the atmosphere of a jostling crowd. In a
way, their liveliness was an expression of the psalmist’s imperative in psalm 118 – ‘bind the festal
procession with branches’.
News print might be a pale imitation; but the spirit of rejoicing, gladness and
thanksgiving was palpable in their singing and waving.
Hosanna is on our
lips as we approach Palm Sunday.
We hear echoes of
Psalm 118 in our readings, hymns and prayers on that day: ‘Blessed is he who
comes in the name of the Lord.’
It is indeed a lively
invitation to join in worship. In verse 24 we hear: ‘this is the day that the
Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.’
Gates are flung upon;
the righteous enter. The celebration is
invoked because the Lord has acted; the triumphant leader is welcomed in. We glimpse a moment of deliverance. We can
perhaps imagine the melee, the noise, the energy. The binding together of
branches in procession speaks of the unity of the worshippers – tips of leaves
touching perhaps; a canopy of light and colour.
Psalm 118 includes
the proclamation and praise of God, echoed by the people: ‘O give thanks to the
Lord, for he is good, / for his steadfast love endures for ever.’
The crowds were
united on the streets of Jerusalem, as they too greeted a king.
But as they sang
words of blessing, would the words of rejection and salvation also have
resonated?
Verse 27 is one that
we hear on Jesus’ lips in Matthew’s Gospel: ‘the stone that the builders rejected
/ has become the chief cornerstone’. It’s
a phrase picked up by Peter in Acts.
Cornerstones give
buildings stability. According to God’s
purposes, the people of Israel were to be such a focus for the kingdom. Yet
they were rejected by the nations. To hold the Psalm in mind as Jesus enters
Jerusalem – not as a triumphant leader but as one who comes in humility – plays
with our notions of time and linear narrative. He is a servant king.
We stand with the
crowds – carrying too the memory of God’s
faithful and steadfast love. We stand not just in anticipation of glory but in anticipation
of rejection.
In our passion
liturgy that tension is heightened. We know that the crowds will turn. We know
that those who cry hosanna will shout crucify; we know that those who pour out
blessings will utter scorn and derision; we know that those who flung open the
gates and threw down palms will watch Jesus become the man of sorrows walking
to his death at Golgotha; the place outside the city wall.
Only part of Psalm 31
is set for the passion: we a thrust into the darkness of distress, grief and
misery. There a pleas for the Lord to be gracious and yet… my life is spent, my
strength fails and my very bones waste away. To scorned by adversaries,
regarded with horror by neighbours and dreaded by acquaintances is such a
degree of alienation that the psalmist says I am ‘like one who is dead’, I am a ‘broken vessel’.
Scheming, plotting
and whispers of terror: yes, those things too are part of our Palm Sunday
drama.
This is not just
personal physical and mental distress. It is pointing us to the cost salvation.
Human fear and the desire for power – or in the words of the psalmist, lying
lips, insolent speech, pride and contempt are exposed. God’s response is to love us to the end. In Jesus we
see the steadfastness of God’s
love; our servant king. He is the one of whom we can say ‘you are my God’; God with us in the messiness and
brutality of life.
As we pray through Holy Week, the psalms continue to speak to us,
addressing our human condition. Or is it we who are transformed as we speak
them?
The psalmist reaches out to God - articulating hopes of
deliverance. 'Lord, deliver me' perhaps summarises our heartfelt cries - expressed by generations gone before us; expressed in our own lives.
© Julie Gittoes 2016
