Homily for Sunday, 24 March 2024‒ Palm Sunday of the Passion of the Lord

Readings of the day: At the procession with palm branches: Mark 11:1-10. During the Mass: Isaiah 50:4-7; Psalm 22:8-9, 17-18, 19-20, 23-24; Philippians 2:6-11; Mark 14:1-15:27

I have yet to become a major aficionado of the series, “The Chosen,” not by any means because I dislike it or think it is overhyped, but… I need some time to catch up on viewing it. From what I have seen, it is a very well-done series.

Yet in one episode of “The Chosen,” Jesus returns to his hometown, Nazareth, which is overrun with people wanting to see him. Jesus has sent his disciples out on mission to heal the sick and work wonders. He cuts through the noise of all the people who want to see him, the hometown crowds, his friends growing up… And he visits his mother Mary for dinner.

In the introduction credits scene of this episode, Jesus is shown as a little child. Mary and Joseph are affectionate toward Jesus and each other. Jesus receives toys and other gifts from relatives. It is a festival scene. Jesus takes his first steps. One of the gifts he receives at that feast is a bridle for a donkey’s colt. It is a gift from Joseph. A donkey’s bridle would be a strange gift for a toddler, except that this bridle had been passed down through generations to Jesus on Joseph’s side, all the way from King David.

In the homecoming dinner scene between Jesus and Mary, Mother and Son have a long conversation. Mary wants to know all about Jesus’ disciples, his “students”: Who is doing well, what they are doing, who is having a rough time. Jesus says that they are all “quite well” at that moment. And then he pauses; he takes Mary’s hand. And then Jesus asks Mary for the box with the bridle. Mary’s face suddenly shows discomfort.

And Mary asks Jesus, “Are you sure this is your last time here” at home? Jesus replies, “I believe that my time is coming.” This part of the conversation ends with Mary saying to Jesus, “I don’t know that I’m ready.” And Jesus replies finally to Mary, with Mary speaking his words back to him at the same time: “I know how you feel. But you also know that I must do the will of him who sent me.”

Sisters and brothers, on this Palm Sunday of the Passion of the Lord, we are not ready. But Jesus has visited his earthly homes, probably his childhood home, the home of his mother Mary, one last time. He is now at the gates of Jerusalem. We greet Jesus, picking up palm branches and casting them at his feet as he rides through the city gates on the donkey, restrained by the bridle Jesus had picked up during his last visit home. We cry out joyfully, as we have to open this Mass: “Hosanna to the Son of David… Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord”!

We are not ready for what is happening or about to happen. We can commemorate this Palm Sunday, Holy Week of which today is the beginning, once every year, all our lives. And we will never be ready for what this Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion, for what the Lord’s Passion, death, and resurrection that we will celebrate all within this next week, will mean for us. This Holy Week we can and will hear two different accounts of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus, in the voices of three readers each: Today, Mark’s account of Jesus’ Passion and, on Good Friday, John’s account of the same events.

We can, and we will, hear Isaiah’s four prophetic hymns of a “suffering servant”: The third of four today; the four in order on Holy Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Good Friday this week. And we will not and cannot be ready. We can and will hear St. Paul’s hymn to the Philippians of a Messiah whom, paradoxically, we worship because, “although he was in the form of God… he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.” And we will not and can never be ready for Jesus to accept this, “death on a cross.”

I speak for myself first and foremost, a sinner preaching to sinners: I will never be ready for Palm Sunday, for Holy Week, for Holy Thursday of the Lord’s Supper, Good Friday, Easter of the Lord’s Resurrection, no matter how many times I celebrate these days with us. If Mary was not ready—the sinless Virgin Mary—then we can never be ready.

Jesus does not wait for us to be ready, sisters and brothers. Jesus walks from Nazareth to Jerusalem’s gates carrying a bridle, the last thing he retrieves from home, for a donkey’s colt. He will go from carrying a bridle to carrying a cross, from riding on that donkey to dying on that cross, within less than a week. Jesus does not wait for us to be ready, to accept death for us, to save us from our sin. No, so single-mindedly does Jesus choose to do “the will of the one who sent” him. And the will of the one who sent him is our salvation, our life forever, in our heavenly home.

Homily for Sunday, 12 September 2021– Twenty-Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year B

Readings of the day: Isaiah 50:5-9a; Psalm 116:1-2, 3-4, 5-6, 8-9; James 2:14-18; Mark 8:27-35

One of the great advantages of living in a religious community of priests, as I do with my brother Basilians Frs. Jim, Dave, and Glenn here in Edmonton, is the depth and diversity of conversation we get into among us. I pray this is also true in our families and households. But recently, just as classes were starting here at St. Joseph’s College and the University of Alberta, Fr. Jim (a philosopher) and I (a theologian) were having our usual deep conversation over breakfast. Fr. Jim asked me an interesting and important question: As a Christian, an academic theologian and instructor at our College, what sets Christianity apart? Why am I a Christian and not of any other noble faith in our world, or of no faith? And what gives me the passion to teach, preach, and study our faith as I do?

I found that, even for somebody who has had as much time to think about these questions as I have, to answer Fr. Jim’s question was difficult. After a long pause, and a short walk over to the coffee pot to fill my mug with the coffee that, for me, is essential to be able to answer such questions early in the day, I blurted out the best answer my insufficiently-caffeinated brain could come up with: The Incarnation. That God, in Jesus Christ, the Second Person of the Trinity who takes on our human nature, shares fully in all our experiences that make us human, including suffering and death, is to me what distinguishes Christianity from any other faith. The Incarnation, first and foremost, gives me the passion to preach, teach, and study our Christian, Catholic faith as I do.

As I reflect on my answer to Fr. Jim that morning, I do not want to put myself on the level of St. Peter in his answer to Jesus’ question in today’s Gospel: “Who do you say that I am”? But I think there are similarities between my answer and Peter’s answer to Jesus in our Gospel. The Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke all include substantially this same event of Peter’s identification of Jesus as the Son of God, “the Christ.” The Gospels differ in some details, though. Only Matthew has Jesus emphasize to Peter how right his answer is, but that he could not possibly have answered so correctly had this not been revealed to him by God “the Father in heaven.” In Luke and Mark, Peter seems to identify Jesus much more fortuitously—“flying by the seat of his pants,” or maybe his tunic, so to speak. Of course, God’s grace in revealing to Peter Jesus’ identity as the Christ is implied by its context in Luke and Mark, if it is not as explicit as in Matthew.

But however Peter is able to answer Jesus’ answer about his identity correctly, amid all kinds of competing options—“John the Baptist… Elijah, and still others, one of the prophets”—with God’s grace (undeniably), before or after his morning coffee, Peter, thanks be to God, gets his answer right. For Peter as for me, the Incarnation is central to who Jesus is. In Jesus, the Son of God, already fully possessing the same eternal divine nature as the Father and the Spirit, has become fully human, fully one of us, and shares in every feature that makes us human, except sin. He takes on human flesh and blood, is born of a human mother, grows up a human child cared for by human parents, breathes, eats, sleeps, prays, serves, heals, teaches… dies a horrific, torturous death, rises from the dead, and ascends to heaven…

Wait, did we just go off script? Even if Jesus is human, he is also God. God cannot suffer and die, right? A significant part of me wants to leap to Peter’s defense when Jesus scolds him so harshly: “Get behind me, Satan! For you are thinking not as God does, but as humans do.”

Truly, though, I think part of me is so eager to defend poor Peter because I am so much like him. We are all so much like him. We would not be here, and we would not profess in our Creed all that we do about God who, in the Second Person of the Trinity, as Jesus, the Christ, became fully human if the Incarnation were not, as it was for Peter; as it is for me and for all of us, so essential to our faith. But, alas, like Peter, I tend; we all tend to think “not as God does, but as humans do.” This is not a criticism against us. If it were, I should be foremost in being criticized, because I have that much more responsibility, as a priest who studies and teaches theology, to understand and teach our faith accurately. We cannot help thinking “not as God does, but as humans do.” Our only experience is that of being human. We are not and cannot be God. We need God’s grace to reveal God’s self to us, Father, Son, and Spirit, so that we can think as God does and seek God in all things, all our thoughts, all our experiences, in our natural world and in heaven.

We are all so much like Peter. We are all here because we have all or will all, at some point, answer correctly; profess our faith correctly, as Peter did: “You are the Christ”…“I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of God, born of the Father before all ages. God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father.”

Yet we are all so much like Peter. We all constantly need God’s grace to accept and enact the most difficult thing we say we believe: That Jesus, the Christ, suffered, died (or is even able to suffer and die), rose from the dead, and ascended into heaven. We, like Peter, need God’s grace to put Satan behind us; Satan who would never allow us to make the profession of faith we do in a God who can and does take our human nature, including our suffering and death, only to transform it into resurrection and ascension to eternal life.

If the Incarnation is truly, as we profess that it is, essential to our Christian faith, then we must be very much like Peter. We must be very much like the “suffering servant” whose hymn we hear today through the prophet Isaiah. Today’s reading from Isaiah is the third of four “servant hymns” in Isaiah. It is the lament of somebody who is suffering horribly for relief from that suffering, but it is also a hymn of hope; of trust in God. This hymn anticipates God’s final vindication of the suffering servant, but also places that vindication in the present tense: “The LORD God helps me… I know that I shall not be put to shame; he who vindicates me is near.”

In our Church’s tradition, Isaiah’s servant hymns have long been connected to the passion and death of Jesus Christ. We hear the four servant hymns in order from the Book of Isaiah during Holy Week, just before Easter, each year. But who are Isaiah’s servants, really? (Isaiah was written centuries before Jesus’ time, so I think it is fair to say that Isaiah could not have been referring directly to a future coming of Jesus. Prophets do not foretell the future; they point out God’s action on our behalf in the present). Are the servants of Isaiah the prophet himself, suffering the reproach of Israel’s people, who were not open to his prophecy? Are they other prophets who spoke for God in Israel’s history? Do they stand for the entire people of Israel? Are they meant to remind us of ourselves as a people of God?

I ask this last question especially because, if we ourselves have not suffered, I think most if not all of us know somebody or know of somebody who has. How many of us have known somebody who has suffered greatly, yet has maintained faith and trust in God, that their suffering or even death will not have the final word? And, if we are not the person suffering in this way, yet continuing to believe and hope, how often do we tend to be drawn to those people; to the strength of God working through them?

This, I think, is at the heart of St. James’ bold claim that “faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.” If our faith is true; if the Incarnation is the centre of our faith as we say it is, then our faith will necessarily lend itself to solidarity with others, especially those who suffer in any way. This is so because our solidarity with those who suffer is in imitation of Jesus Christ who, in an unprecedented way in history—in a way no other world religion claims its founder did—entered into full solidarity with us by becoming human like us. In this way, Jesus is Isaiah’s servant, projected into our human history, but so are we.

In this way the Incarnation becomes enacted in our own lives. Jesus continues to take flesh and blood, die, rise, and ascend to heaven in us, insofar as we enter into solidarity with the suffering servants of our time; as we pray and act preferentially for their well-being. This allows us then to sing together the servant’s hymn of lament, but also of hope and trust in God, that eternal life and not suffering or death will have the final word.