Holy Week begins with the dissonant music that no one wants to hear. Yes, to some extent, the dissonance is the painful and strident noise of the crowds calling for a brutal death by execution. Yes, the dissonance is the clang of violent instruments of torture, the spitting at a human face, and the agony of death throes in a moment of utter loneliness and despair. Yes, the dissonance is the anguish and sorrow at Jesus hanging on a cross.
But there is another dissonance, too. It is not the most overt dissonance. It is not the dissonance of yet another Hollywood portrayal of a well-known tragedy. It is the dissonance of deceit, fickleness, and falsity. It is the dissonance of clashing testimony, dishonest words, and cowardice.
It may be that precisely because this particular dissonance hits so close to home, we do not want to hear it. We are much more comfortable with the cries of hosanna as Jesus enters into Jerusalem acclaimed as king. And we are left with a painful sense of whiplash as the music’s tone changes swiftly from consonant fanfare to raucous screeching. The voices and instruments once sounding in sweet harmony have gone out of control. Homophony and controlled counterpoint have veered into aleatory.
The dissonance is, of course, in the liturgy itself. It is in our corporate participation in the events of Jesus’ passion so many years ago, as those saving events are made real in our present. If it were a mere reenactment, it would be easy enough to keep the discord at a distance. But we know these events are real and present to us, that we are in them.
And the dissonance is also right there in the text of holy Scripture, subtly hidden amid the details of a theatrical spectacle of a Roman crucifixion. We are told that as some sought solid reasons to convict Jesus and put him to death, the testimony of many voices did not agree. Many came forward to indict Jesus, but when all the notes of their accounts were layered together, it was nothing but discordant noise.
From our place of righteousness so far removed from the historical events recounted, we fume at the dishonesty. We cover our ears at the blatant lies and the cruelty so blindly set on the death of an innocent man. Once a year, on this day, we wallow in the generous permission we give ourselves to entertain the modern-sounding dissonant music of old until Easter can re-organize it into brass bands and fanfares once again.
But every year, as we begin the holiest of weeks for Christians, we are jolted out of our complacency on Palm Sunday. And if we were to take our hands off our ears for a moment and enter into the disharmony that assaults our ears from all around, we might begin to hear the dissonance in our own hearts, too.
The dissonance starts, of course, with the story we so painfully listen to. Jesus has already announced that one of his closest followers will betray him. The one who dips bread into a bowl with him will hand him over to be tried and crucified. Later, Jesus is in Gethsemane with Peter, James, and John. These are the disciples who previously stayed close to Jesus on the mountain as he was transfigured before their eyes. And now, in the hour of death, they cannot even stay awake to be with him in his loneliness and agony. Judas’s subversive kiss of peace is tainted by its sign of betrayal. And Peter, the disciples of disciples, denies knowing Jesus three times, not long after he has avowed his utter loyalty to Jesus. The final scene of this drama shows the Son of Man alone on a cross as some of his followers look on—not at the foot of the cross, but at a distance.
This is the dissonance that lies beneath the passion story that begins this holiest of weeks. It is the dissonance between discipleship and desertion, between courage and cowardice, between following and fickleness. It’s easy enough to notice it in characters of a well-known story. But if we’re honest, it’s harder to see this own dissonance in our own hearts.
Isn’t this what Palm Sunday reveals? At the commencement of this Holy Week, we are cut to the heart by the dissonance between our own lives and that of the Christ. This is a week where we prepare to walk in the ways of holiness by acts of repentance, fasting, and self-denial, and from the first notes of the score, we have lost control of the piece. It is nothing but cacophony.
We want, for just a while before the sobering events of the week ahead, to sit with the fanfares. We want to feel in control of this week and gain mastery of our own pious practices. And instead, Palm Sunday reminds us that the dissonance starts right at the very beginning. No sooner has the overture begun than we are swung recklessly into the throes of the dissonance in which we live.
We are, I imagine, all too aware of this painful dissonance. We know how easily we mimic Peter, how facilely we profess our allegiance to Christ and also how quickly that allegiance turns to denial the minute our friendships or other loyalties are at stake. When our life is a series of mountaintop experiences, we cling to the Risen Christ and attribute our successes to his graciousness. But when we lose control of the piece, we are all hatred and venom.
We see this very discord in our own society. We readily acknowledge our commitment to liberty and the common good, but the reality that stares us down every day is out of phase with what we profess. We celebrate our success and civility, without realizing the jarring sounds of the overwhelming violence that has been blatantly evident in just this past week. Like Jesus’ fearful followers watching his death from a distance, perhaps we watch the horrors of racism, xenophobia, and cold violence from a distance, too.
We are all for Jesus when life is full of smiles, but when the musical score throws a surprise accidental into the mix, we flee. Or we move farther into the distance to see how things will play out before investing ourselves spiritually anymore. Palm Sunday, it seems, has a way of dredging up the muck from our hearts and exposing it to the light of day.
But the thing about Jesus is that none of this is a surprise to him. Jesus had already set his face like flint to his destiny long before he was left alone on the cross. Soon after that last supper in the upper room, Jesus quoted Scripture: “You will all become deserters; for it is written, ‘I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered.’”
Jesus is not surprised that our hosannas will turn to calls for crucifixion. Jesus knows that the precious Blood he constantly offers us in the Eucharist is countered by sour wine that we offer him in return. He has heard us mock him, when we have had enough of the trials of life and we tell him to prove his power and come to our aid. But he does not respond by refusing to listen. He comes to save us anyway.
Jesus has already set his face like flint to do the work God had called him to do. He would not shrink before the mockery and shame of an ignoble death. He would go to the loneliest place on the planet, and even to the depths of hell to show the depths of God’s love. On that third day, his face, set like flint, would become the stone against which the new fire of his saving light would be kindled for a dark world.
And on that day to come, when it is time to hand the kingdom over to the Father, Jesus the Good Shepherd will call his sheep. They have fled, but his love for them has not. And if they can recognize his voice, they will hear him calling. And the sheep that have been scattered through the dissonance of their own lives, are gathered back to the One who has been the constant ground-bass of this unruly score. And the Good Shepherd puts them on his shoulders and brings them home.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday
March 28, 2021