Palm Sunday – Unless
It is tempting to skip straight from Palm Sunday to Easter, and if we do, we miss so many of the powerful moments Holy Week invites us to explore. By exploring a different Gospel text this year, we can reflect on the potential we have for transformation as we step into these holy days. What do we need to face, so that we can nurture healing in our lives?
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Transcript
Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; But if it dies, it bears much fruit.
I spoke with the bishop and colleagues about changing the Gospel reading this year, because there are key teachings of Jesus that we need to explore during these difficult days. More happens in the arc of the narrative than we typically hear during this week. We are challenged to receive these deep teachings of Jesus, and these days call for imaginative responses that help us orient ourselves, so we can hear what we perhaps have not heard. So, on this day, we hear a powerful reading that occurs after Jesus’ triumphal entry with palms. Maybe hearing it in its context will spark something within our hearts and we can find the spiritual courage to do the soul work we need to do. And, of course, I can only encourage you to share in all the liturgies this week so that your heart can experience the transformation that is promised, as we embody that sacred alchemy within our own souls.
Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; But if it dies, it bears much fruit.
A while back I watched an incredible documentary about Winston Churchill, a truly complicated and fascinating figure whose presence and leadership during World War II still challenges us to reflect on the responsibilities of power in times of crisis. Churchill is a legendary figure, and this documentary sought to shine a light on his humanity, on the struggles he faced as he craved to make his mark on the world.
There is one scene that I have witnessed in many films and documentaries about him that always makes my heart ache. At several points during the blitz, Churchill left the safety of the bunker and went to the roof where he could stand and watch the bombs fall on London. He would stand there in a helmet with his cigar and watch the fires burn around him. Of course his aides tried to keep him deep in the bunker, but he wouldn’t have it. He needed to face the reality of the situation, and by facing it, his resolve was actually strengthened to do what he could to inspire the people to face the pressure of Nazism and facism, to resist the authoritarianism that was sweeping across the land.
In that same context of the blitz, the great poet T. S. Eliot put the finishing touches on his Four Quartets. He wrestled with how to understand the pain that he was witnessing during World War II. In “Little Gidding,” we can hear his own desire to make meaning of the human condition:
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Human kind/ cannot bear very much reality, Eliot writes, as he wrestled with how to make sense of the pain of the world around him. The temptation to become numb is always present, a subtle siren who calls for us to turn our eyes away and deny what is right in front of us. To give up and resign ourselves that things will never improve. To that temptation, Eliot writes What might have been and what has been/ Point to one end, which is always present. Here and now. Facing reality head-on.
Our ideas of what might be, our fantasies, our impulse to project wishful thinking, our regrets and longings, our distractions and neglect, even our fears, all our struggle to make sense are all drawn to one point, to a moment of reality which is always present. Some might dare to call that sacred moment of reality and truth the Kingdom of Heaven itself.
The deep call, of course, is to remain present in this moment that promises to teach us the truth about ourselves, the truth about life. Our shallow, small-selves compel us to look elsewhere. We so often want to find a distraction that will somehow take the pressure off the spiritual work we actually need to do in our own life, even though the deep teachings of our faith remind us over and over that healing is only found by nurturing that sacred moment.
When we dare to sit in the present moment, we can gain a certain clarity about where we are and what we are being called to do–who we are called to be. The problem with being still, of course, is that we end up having a lot of time with ourselves, and the awareness that comes from being alone with ourselves is terrifying. We often become convicted about our patterns, those convenient stories we tell ourselves, so our small-self prefers to just stay busy, because that actually feels less painful than daring to shift our behaviors based on an honest insight. Put another way, when we dare to go to the roof and look at the damage being done, we may actually have to do something about it.
Jesus knew this when he told those gathered Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. This is an enigmatic teaching, for sure. As best as I can tell, Jesus was hoping to show them–and us–this: To truly love is to trust, and the mark of such trust is to release our grasp and fixation on control. Those who know what love is, those who love their life in this way, release it. And in releasing it, it flourishes and bears more fruit than they could ever imagine.
Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; But if it dies, it bears much fruit.
One of my favorite Jazz singers, Abbey Lincoln, puts it this way:
Throw it away, throw it away
Give your love, live your life each and every day
And keep your hand wide open, let sun shine through
‘Cause you can never lose a thing if it belongs to you.
On the other hand, those whose lives are marked by hate and resentment are plagued by the urge to grasp. It is the fearful hand that squeezes most tightly. Let me repeat that, because it is worth reflecting on in these days: It is the fearful hand that squeezes most tightly. And, when your hand squeezes so tightly, you are always carrying the burdens with you. We all have our lessons to learn, certain lessons that are somehow connected to our souls. When we live a life marked by such fearful grasping, with hate, anger, and greed, we shouldn’t be surprised when we are given unlimited opportunities to learn the lessons we are meant to learn.
One might take a risk and say that the very reason we find ourselves in the situation we are in as a nation and a world is that we still haven’t learned the lessons we must learn about greed and fear–and what it truly means to be a human being living in an interconnected world. One of the core mystical teachings of our faith is that we will continue to face the challenge until we learn the lesson.
We so often fall prey to thinking that leadership through fear, pressure, and coercion might actually work. Such hollow leadership has never been sustainable and it will never be, because it, too, is rooted in the shallow impulse that denies our interconnection as a creation. Leadership based on fear is a house built on sand. Jesus knew this, of course, and that is why so much of his teaching focused on becoming aware of ourselves and nurturing a holy trust.
In Jesus’s own moment of struggle, he dared to share his feelings with his disciples: “Now my soul is troubled. And what should I say– ‘Father, save me from this hour?’” That is such a human experience. But Jesus takes the next step and dares to say–to pray, even– “No, it is for this reason that I have come to this hour.” Jesus knows the impulse of humanity to avoid, as we see in Eliot’s words, humankind cannot bear very much reality, and he focuses himself in that present moment and shows us the ultimate lesson of trust. Jesus bears the fullness of reality and shows us what is possible. He embodies in his own life that which is meant for our own.
At this point in the story, as we begin Holy Week, our spirits may be troubled as well. Twenty years into holding Holy Week services, I have a sneaking suspicion that our souls know the liturgies of this week hold a mirror up to our own complex human lives. Something in us resists them. The movement through Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Great Vigil show us what is needed to embody that inner alchemy that teaches that healing comes through awareness and release, through that transmutation of energies, if you will. Holy Week is marked by deep soul work, and if I can be so bold, I think that is why so many of us skip from this point to Easter. The pressure of facing these aspects of our lives makes us uncomfortable. Who wants to wash feet? Who wants to face betrayal on one hand while wrestling with what it means to somehow consume bread and wine to share in the divine body? Who wants to face pain and death?
At this point, we can only receive Jesus’s own words, his own prayer and deep teaching. Those gathered around him struggled to make sense of what he was telling them. We struggle as well. The path he was on was not what they expected–or what they wanted. We prefer a Jesus that always makes us comfortable, but the authentic Jesus walks with us through the valley of the shadow of death. He does not find a short-cut.
In that moment, Jesus could only tell them this: The light is with you for a little longer. Walk while you have the light, so that the darkness may not overtake you. If you walk in the darkness, you do not know where you are going. While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of light.
*This transcript was created using AI and human editors, and as a result, may contain errors.