The paradox of Palm Sunday...
It's Palm Sunday weekend...
Part of us saying "Hosanna", part of us saying "Crucify him!"
I feel weird celebrating this day as a triumphal day, a triumphant moment, because it's so superficial. It's a moment of worship tied to a human expectation/agenda, a fragile set of terms that will break our agreements if violated. So shallow a shout of praise. So fleeting an emotion of adulation.
I feel this lip-service at times myself. I claim a lofty acclaim for Christ, but when the moment of truth comes, I cower and crumble. As long as the mob is chanting, I submit to the current...wherever it may turn, for better or for worse. Oh, the outside of me stays pretty steady, but my insides shape-shift to the trends of the chant.
There are moments of boldness and joy when I'm surrounded by the chants of worship, lifting high the name of Jesus. But the moments seem like a distant memory when by nightfall the mob changes its tune, and all voices, including my own, start echoing the loudest voice...mimicking the most convenient commentary. I chime in as if my own lips haven't been both a spring of salt and fresh water all in a matter of days, sometimes hours. My lazy faith is exposed.
I feel for Jesus as he watches us (me) change like the shifting shadows. I know he knows my shallow and fallow heart and loves me even then. But it's hard to accept his love when mine is so temporary and temperamental. His so steadfast, mine so capricious. His so pure, mine so defiled.
So Palm Sunday is a reminder to remember how quickly things change, a day to search my own soul for hypocrisy and double-mindedness. A day to thank God for moments of triumph, but to note the sad tragedy that often follows in its train. The Judas in me and the Jesus in me.
So this weekend I am trying to be more humble about my own frail faith that sighs as it says, "I believe, but help my unbelief."
Part of us saying "Hosanna", part of us saying "Crucify him!"
I feel weird celebrating this day as a triumphal day, a triumphant moment, because it's so superficial. It's a moment of worship tied to a human expectation/agenda, a fragile set of terms that will break our agreements if violated. So shallow a shout of praise. So fleeting an emotion of adulation.
I feel this lip-service at times myself. I claim a lofty acclaim for Christ, but when the moment of truth comes, I cower and crumble. As long as the mob is chanting, I submit to the current...wherever it may turn, for better or for worse. Oh, the outside of me stays pretty steady, but my insides shape-shift to the trends of the chant.
There are moments of boldness and joy when I'm surrounded by the chants of worship, lifting high the name of Jesus. But the moments seem like a distant memory when by nightfall the mob changes its tune, and all voices, including my own, start echoing the loudest voice...mimicking the most convenient commentary. I chime in as if my own lips haven't been both a spring of salt and fresh water all in a matter of days, sometimes hours. My lazy faith is exposed.
I feel for Jesus as he watches us (me) change like the shifting shadows. I know he knows my shallow and fallow heart and loves me even then. But it's hard to accept his love when mine is so temporary and temperamental. His so steadfast, mine so capricious. His so pure, mine so defiled.
So Palm Sunday is a reminder to remember how quickly things change, a day to search my own soul for hypocrisy and double-mindedness. A day to thank God for moments of triumph, but to note the sad tragedy that often follows in its train. The Judas in me and the Jesus in me.
So this weekend I am trying to be more humble about my own frail faith that sighs as it says, "I believe, but help my unbelief."
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