|
CRUCIFY
HIM!
Palm Sunday, March 30, 1958. Davenport, Iowa. My confirmation
day.
Today I am grown up. I have a new spring dress, white high heels
and my first nylon hose. It's freezing outside, not so good for
spring dresses and white shoes. We confirmands wear white robes
over our spring dresses to remind us that we are clothed in
Christ.
We kneel at the altar. Each of us affirms our baptism. Yes, I
believe in God the Father; yes, I believe in God the Son; yes, I
believe in God the Holy Ghost. My 13-year-old self is
overwhelmed by the presence and mystery of God.
There are no palms or pageantry on this day in this church. It's
just like any other Sunday. Nothing special, except that this is
my confirmation day. This is the day I can speak for myself and
say "I believe.";
+++
When I was a girl, Palm Sunday worship was all about Jesus,
king-like astride a donkey, entering Jerusalem as huge crowds
cried "hosanna."; The mood of worship was upbeat, buoyed by the
double dynamic of kingship and confirmation.
Nowadays the Palm Sunday worship service in most Lutheran
churches begins with hosannas, but as it progresses, the mood
becomes darker and less joyful. The sermon is often replaced
with a reading of the Passion. We hear the words of Jesus,
Peter, Judas, Pilate. The congregation speaks for the mob:
"Crucify him!"; It's an ambivalent worship experience. We rejoice
that the King is coming. And then we turn into a mob calling for
the King's death.
I didn't like this form of Palm Sunday liturgy when it first
came into my brain space. But I've had a lot of time to think
about it, and now I find the ambivalent emphasis totally
appropriate. Take me, for example. On my confirmation day, I
hailed Jesus the King and said I would follow wherever he would
lead.
And ever since then, I have followed Jesus. Sort of. Sometimes.
When it's been convenient.
I'm full of good intentions, but look at me. Here I am, standing
with the mob. I'm not screaming for his execution, but my
silence speaks volumes. Crucify him!
Dallas Cronk
|