(Please read Psalm 118:1-2,19-29 and Psalm 31:9-16)
So, here we are …. just days before Palm Sunday ... just days before we wave our palms branches and shout our own Hosannas. And just days before joy and celebration turn into a journey that none of us would ever want to make.
But, in a way, we do make this journey. No matter who we are, what our age or what status we hold in the community, in our jobs, in our schools or within our families, we do find ourselves moving from joyous celebration, as found in Psalm 118, to the very personal cries of anguish, heartache and sadness as found in our Psalm 31 reading tonight. As we eavesdrop on Jesus in Gethsemane and as we stand at the foot of the cross and hear his cries, we realize that the One who called out to his Father, recognizes our own pain and loves us through it.
I want to place a thought before you to consider. Just as the music of my own praise and thanksgiving sounds to God, in whatever form it takes, so it is with yours. And it is the same with our cries. Anguish is anguish. Pain is pain. Sadness is sadness and fear is fear. There is no scale that weighs whose is greater than the other. A child’s fearful cries to our LORD are heard with equal attention as mine or yours. Our lives write our own Psalms and none is greater or lesser than the other when heard by God. To say that they are is to discount another person’s silent, private cries and pain and heartache.
For this reason, I have chosen to speak of a child… but he could you or me. He is forgotten. He seems very much to be a broken vessel. He most certainly hears the whispers of many around him. As he is to me, he is to others … and that is nameless. But he is very real, for I often see him standing along the side of the road as I go to work. In this young boy, I have seen the anguish of Psalm 31. I can almost see Jesus wrapping his arms around this child in Gethsemane, assuring him that he understands. And I know, for sure, that this young boy must know what it’s like to stand along the road to Jerusalem with a great hope in his heart that he will be noticed by a man on a lumbering donkey.
So, let me share this broken vessel of a child with you. On my morning drives to work, I see children standing by the side of the roads, waiting for school buses. There is a particular section of my route that has two school bus stops extremely close to each other. At one stop, I see a group of really cool-looking kids, laughing and talking with one another and texting to other kids. But at the other bus stop there is one child, away from the other children, looking pitiful and sad.
This young boy might be 12 years old. I first noticed him because he stood so far apart from the other children. His back was to the street. His book bag wasn’t old, but it certainly wasn’t “cool” like the other kids’ book bags. In fact, it reminded me of the one I had as a child … an olive green canvas one that surely was bought at the local Army/Navy store. His head was down and he was kicking the dirt. I couldn’t see his face. But for some reason, I waved. I don’t know why. After all, his back was to the street. I felt as if I was seeing the words of Psalm 31 where it says, “I have passed out of mind like one who is dead”, In other words, forgotten. I sensed that he was a forgotten child among many unforgettable “cool” children of his school.
The next day, this young boy faced my way. Even from my moving car, I could see that he was in great need of braces on his teeth. His arms and legs were alarmingly skinny. His glasses reminded me of military-issue glasses. His hair was sticking out in all directions … and certainly not on purpose. For a young boy, his clothes were definitely not “cool”. Again, I waved as I drove by. He didn’t wave back, but I noticed, as I glanced in my rear view mirror, that he turned and looked my way. The next day, I waved again and once more, he turned and looked my way as I passed by. The fourth day, he threw up his hand when I waved. And the following day, he stood on the edge of the curb and he seemed as if he was looking for my car. HE was the first one to wave on that morning. I found myself praying for him. “O God, please, please tell me that his days at school are much better than I think they are. Tell me that he has a group of friends who like him, who laugh with him and encourage him. Please make his days good ones. Please let him know that he is your beloved child.”
As I think ahead to Holy Week, as we pick up our palm branches and journey into Jerusalem with Jesus, I see a child like this young boy, standing by the side of the dusty road that leads into the city - maybe not standing with us but away from us. Perhaps he is the one standing far apart from the throngs of people who have gathered – finding himself at the very end of this “triumphal entry” route. He is the one who has a very personal hope in this man named Jesus. While others are shouting “Hosannas” and speculating on “who” Jesus is, while others are hoping for a conquering hero, this child dares to say, with a great hope, even in his sadness, “O give thanks to the LORD for he is good; his steadfast love endures forever!.” He stands by himself and whispers in his joy and hope, “You are my God”… and likewise in his fears and anguish, “You are my God. I trust in you to help me through my days.”
THIS is the day that the LORD has made …
I picture my young friend as the one whose palm branch might be bent and broken and who, because of life’s circumstances, doesn’t have much energy to wave the branch. He has no spare garments to place in the donkey’s path. But this child is there … one of the very least among the celebrants. He has moved to the very edge of the road, looking for this man riding on a slow-moving donkey, hoping that when Jesus passes by, he might glance his way. He barely whispers, “Oh, please look my way. Please wave at me. Please tell me I am not as forgotten as I feel that I am. Please give me hope.”
And this man on the donkey, the One whose entry into Jerusalem has caused so much commotion and so many questions, looks at this lone child at the end of the road. He waves, smiles and mouths out the words, “BELOVED CHILD”. The young boy no long feels invisible or forgotten. “He looked at me,” he whispered. “He looked my way and waved.” The young boy waves the bent and broken palm branch. Alone, he runs ahead and places the branch in front of the donkey’s path. For the first time in his life, he feels “cool” for he has been told that he is indeed beloved.
THIS is the day that the LORD has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.
My young friend is a very real person. I can attest to that. But he is also you and me. One day rejoicing and filled with joy and praise to the LORD. The next day, crying out in our fears, sadnesses and heartaches. We are all broken vessels and out of the broken places, God’s Love will flow. That is reason enough for praise and thanksgiving. We are beloved children of God and that also is reason enough for praise and thanksgiving. In both our joys and in our heartaches, we can say, “You are my God. I trust in you” and time and time again, we find that God is completely trustworthy and steadfast in his love for us.
In one way, we have all made this Lenten journey somewhat alone, haven’t we? We have stood apart from the “cool” people of this world and hopefully drawn closer to God. But now all of our paths intermingle. Now we are called to pick up our palm branches and come together on Sunday, waving them and shouting our Hosannas. And we will be asked by the One who has resolutely set his sights on the cross for you and for me, “Who do you say that I am?” Is he the chief cornerstone of our church? Is he the Messiah, the Lord and Savior in and of our lives?
THIS is the day that the LORD has made …
Next week, we will find ourselves walking through Holy Week. The following Thursday night is Holy Thursday. It is Jesus who prepared the table for his disciples then and he prepares the table for us now. He is the host. It is good and right that we come together for that evening.
For THIS is the day the LORD has made …
On Good Friday, we find it quite needed for us to come together once more … to stand in the shadows of the cross. To hear both the whispers and the cries of Jesus. It is overwhelming for sure to be reminded, even in Jesus’ anguished cries, of this unfathomable love that flows from the cross for each of us. And on this day, on Good Friday, we find ourselves saying, “When, O God, will you lead us from our Psalm 31 anguished cries to our Psalm 118 joys and Hallelujahs?”
We will gather together at the Easter Vigil, in the cool night air of our hopes and Easter morning we will hear a resounding echo from an empty tomb for ALL the world to hear - for all who stand along the sides of our roads and wait ….
THIS IS THE DAY THAT THE LORD HAS MADE, LET US REJOICE AND BE GLAD IN IT.
Psalm 118 brings us together with joy and celebration, with shouts of praise. It places palm branches in our hands and compels us to walk to the temple steps and lay them there. It places the words, “You are my God” on our lips. Psalm 31 finds us alone, in anguish and pain and in a voice that is barely recognizable as our own, and in the very same trust as found in Psalm 118, we whisper, "You are my God."
This very God who is both the recipient of our shouts of praise and the One who shoulders our heartache and pain says, “You there … standing along the side of the road … and you, with your head down and kicking the dirt …. and you, with the bent and broken palm branch … YOU are my beloved children.”
As we walk together into Holy Week and out into our world to assure the forgotten, the hungry, and those who find themselves alone that they too are God’s beloved children, we all say once more (and let’s say it together), THIS IS THE DAY THAT THE LORD HAS MADE, LET US REJOICE AND BE GLAD IN IT.
Amen.
