No, I think that the
discomfort of attending Mass that is augmented on this day — the increased length,
the increased standing, the increased emphasis on the sufferings of Jesus, the
deep discomfort and more deeply resonant shouting of “Crucify him!”— that is
precisely what makes it so right, so important to attend Mass this day.
Any other day of the
year, that very discomfort, the inconvenience of mobilizing our families or
just ourselves for Mass, of enduring what fails to entertain, of abandoning our
leisure and our work for the purposeful purposelessness of ritual worship; all
this chafes on any normal day, on “any given Sunday.” The talk of sin, the talk of death, all seems
such an intrusion on our day and what we want to get out of it.
But this day,
precisely that discomfort seems somehow to fit our needs, to answer some craving. Holding limply our new-blessed palms, our
half-hearted singing of All Glory Laud
and Honor is just like our half-hearted singing on any other day; but this
day, our half-heartedness is precisely what we have in common with the crowd:
they greeted the Lord with enthusiasm, then condemned him. Standing for the entire reading of the Passion
wearies our feet and our patience, just as our weight shifts and our minds
wander during the reading of every Gospel; but this day, that weary, weighty shifting,
that desire to be somewhere else, puts us however momentarily in Christ’s own
shoes.
In fact, this might be
the only day that Mass makes sense; for once we do not show up expecting to be
encouraged or enthused over, to be coddled and congratulated. We want no compliments; that would strike us as
foolish on Palm Sunday, and make us look away with embarrassment for whoever
tried it. No, we expect to encounter own
our guilt this day; to stare at the wounds of Christ without turning our eyes
away, to recognize the crown He wears is of our weaving, to admit the nails are
of our forging, the pains of our hammering.
We know each Sunday is
a “little Easter,” which might lead us to expect unmixed joy on the other
fifty-one of each year. Smiles and
delight should mark the members of the winning team, as the cheering resounds –
right? Instead, we find again, disappointingly,
this cross, this blood, this death we thought we had already treated
sufficiently. We find our weight shifting
in our shoes, and our attention wandering to where we would rather be. We want more encouragement, more
entertainment, more efficiency, and if we cannot find it here, we will seek it
in other endeavors. Mass becomes a
burden.
Today we confront the
reality of the burden that is our salvation, and Him who bore it. We acknowledge what a grace and privilege it
is to be able to do “not our will, but yours” in such a small way, with such
great fruit. The little difficulties of
giving glory to God combine into a dying to ourselves that opens us to life purchased
for us with blood. Each “little Easter”
is achieved only by the littler Calvaries we take up willingly: missing out on
some fun, getting everybody into the car, or getting nothing out of the homily. The pains we endure in approaching the saving
meal are what we have in common with what the Saving Victim endured to put food
on the table. Today, when we expect the
Cross, it all makes sense; but the rest of the year, when we would be inclined
to avoid it, only this selfsame Cross of Christ will bring sense to our lives, and
bring us authentic joy.
Hail the cross, our
only hope.
Monsignor Smith
