March 20, 2005
Contributed by Rick Marshall |
See also: [2008][2002]Lenten Candle Liturgy |
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Psalm 31:9-16
Philippians 2:5-11
Matthew 26:14-27:66 or Matthew 27:11-54
Let’s call this Schizo Sunday; it wants to split and go in two
different directions: Palm/Passion. But the problem is with our reading
of the narrative and not the narrative itself.
What is the relationship in the church’s history between the Triumphal
Entry story, symbolized by palms, and the Passion narrative? One is a
giddy, silly, mock coronation. It makes the reader woozy in its circus
gestures toward the worship of a standard king. It would be comedy if it
didn’t turn tragedy; it’s conclusion is the crowning of “The King
of the Jews!” in Matthew 27:27-31. In contrast, the Passion narrative
heavily unfolds to its inevitable conclusion. The church, in it’s
double mindedness about this Sunday, thinks it solves the dualism by
giving us a choice with the slash between Palm and Passion. The
lectionary for this year settles this by coming down on the side of
Passion over Palm. Yet, we still hear the voices of the cheering crowd
sounding like a muffled Greek Chorus as a background to the Passion
narrative, like a catchy jingle that forms a loop in the mind. The
temptation toward King David persists as powerfully as any archetype. I
think the lectionary is right in this choice because the Triumphal Entry
is prelude, set up, to the dirge of the Passion and the ultimate failure
of any humanly choreographed triumph.
To hear the Passion once again is like listening to an Italian opera
without knowing Italian: the sounds and words are familiar because we
have heard them so many times, and the feelings the hearing evokes are
deep and powerful, but we still don’t speak or understand the
language. And, as if learning Italian would solve the problem of
understanding, we think that learning the language of the narrative
could crack the code of the true meaning of Divine passion. Maybe we
should just sit back, listen, and enjoy hearing it all over again. It
will evoke deep and powerful feelings. There is mystery here. If we
listen carefully to the familiar story once again, put our ear to this
holy ground, we hear footsteps, scuffling, a cough, Roman words, long
Aramaic vowels. The lash of a whip comes; we hear the sharp clank of
iron on flesh. We wince. Silence, wind, a groan. It becomes Greek to us
once again. The narrative curls around a deeper movement: a plumbing of
the heart of God. The story is more shocking than we ever thought
possible. The pulse throbbing underneath all the layers of the narrative
is the rhythm of Divine grief. Who dares to go there without the safety
net of this familiar telling?
All of this might be an argument for simply reading the full narrative
and letting it stand on its own without comment. But that might be too
naked, too unrelenting. Chattering about it in a sermon takes away the
edge, the chill of being directly exposed to Divine pain. We can no more
bear the full force of this narrative than we could see our parents cry
when we were a child. Even Mel Gibson’s movie, “The Passion of the
Christ,” by focusing on the violence, misses the profound pain of God.
The movie glides on as if it were a ballet of violence, when, in fact,
the narrative takes us to the most primitive depths of existential
paralysis; it is gut-wrenching. We are witnessing the execution of
someone’s child and not just any execution nor just any child. “My
God, my God!” Life doesn’t getting any darker than that night in the
Garden of Gethsemane or than the moment of utter abandonment on the
cross. What words are even possible that can plumb those depths? The
language has to be metaphorical, poetic.
For this Sunday, we will focus on the whole Passion narrative. The word
“passion” might hold the key to the thrust of the text.
“Passion” is an odd word to be so theologically important. Its
actual occurrence in the Bible is rare, and when it does occur, it has
negative connotations: feelings and desires to be feared or avoided
because they cause trouble in the form of corruption. I have a vivid
memory of reading about the Greek horse which represents the wildness
and power of passion, with the cold bit, called reason, in its mouth to
steer this dangerous animal. The fear of feelings seems so Greek, yet
passion is a Latin word, which doesn’t make things any easier to
understand. In itself, the concept of passion is simple: strong
feelings, undergoing suffering etc. The striking thing is its
application as a description of the Divine. And it is no peripheral
concept; it is central. If the Gospels are passion narratives with
extended introductions, then passion, or feeling, is a major attribute
of God. Therefore, the passion narrative might be one grand divine
“ouch” in response to the cost of love. But it is more, of course.
The word “passion,” and the narrative itself, suggests that God
feels, which completely and unequivocally contradicts the stubborn
theory of God’s immutability, that is, the idea that God does not
change, that God is impassive, or lacks passion. If the Gospels take
seriously the idea that God feels, then maybe we should, too. Here is
the problem: to feel is to be vulnerable to being changed. But this
makes perfect sense because if God is love, then to love someone is to
feel their feelings, to hurt when they hurt, to rejoice when they
rejoice (does this sound like our friend Paul?), to be open to being
changed by the other, because that is the nature of love. As a father,
husband and friend to many, I know this to be true about love. Love is
the passion word par excellence. It is the defining relational word and
it is the central word that describes God.
At the heart of the Gospel is this stunning claim that God feels and is
vulnerable to us and feels our feelings and responds to us. Love implies
feelings, feelings imply response, and response implies the possibility
of changing. There is a logic to love and that logic is worked out in so
many stories in the Bible, most poignantly in the Passion narrative.
This should have been the theological logic all along. But early on, the
church fathers (and they were men) decided to turn Greek and opted for
omnipotence, immutability and all those other descriptions of the
logical simplicity of the Divine nature. Hence the tortured path of
creeds, trying to make one plus one equal three.
But a responsive God is not simply a Christian idea, because the Jewish
scriptures describe a God deeply involved in an ongoing, difficult,
painful relationship with creation. God exhibits all the feelings of
being in relationship: love, anger, disappointment, affection, pleasure.
This dynamically involved God is there in all the stories. Look at
God’s resolve at the end of the Noah story not to react in anger! Look
at God negotiating with Moses! Look at the book of Hosea! Look at
God’s satisfaction with creation at the end of the Creation story in
Genesis! Look at the prophets, pleading on God’s behalf! God is fully
engaged in dynamic relationship with Creation.
What a mistake is the idea of omnipotence, if it is understood as God
having all coercive power and if that power means that God does not
change in response to creation. Immutable, impassive, coercively
all-powerful. How do these ideas set with the passion narrative? They
don’t. The theory of Divine omnipotence flattens God, turns God into a
one-dimensional character in a weird ballet of external power over a
stubborn material universe. The God of the Bible is far more interesting
(not to mention worshipful) than the God of simple omnipotence.
Preaching the Text:
From a process-relational perspective, God and the world are involved in
a dynamic relationship that can best be described as a loving
relationship, implying all the texture and the contours of any loving
relationship. One strategy, then, might be to focus on the nature of
love and to work out the idea of God as Love in light of how we
understand any loving relationship. Examples of husband/wife,
parent/child, friend/friend, etc., could easily be used as windows into
the Divine nature.
Another strategy is to focus on one or two scenes, for example the
Garden scene or the Cross scene to talk about the Divine cost of love.
We understand the cost of love. The issue of trust, as discussed earlier
this season, could be reintroduced here. Jesus, facing his own death,
offered himself into God’s hands as an act of trust, not unlike
Abraham. However, we are not ready to talk about creative
transformation. It is not in the air in this story. We will save that
for Easter, where it grows from this dim place to full bloom.
Another way to handle the passion narrative is to go directly to the
word “passion” and work out the meaning of the word for God as
described above. Take a look at how the Bible describes the relationship
between Creator and creatures, Parent and Child, Bride and Bridegroom,
Lover and Beloved.
Or, as you prefer, especially if you do not observe Tenebrae, you could
simply read the story and let it stand on it’s own.
Rick Marshall is the pastor of the Brea Congregational Church, UCC in Brea, California. This year, he and the Brea church will be celebrating 20 years of mutual ministry. He has written a confirmation curriculum based on a relational theology that is available from Process & Faith. The Rev. Rick Marshall can be reached at bccrick50@msn.com
If you found this lectionary helpful, please consider contributing to Process & Faith by making a donation or becoming a member.
Process & Faith is a program of the Center for Process Studies, an affiliated program of the Claremont School of Theology.
This site and all content ©2006 Process & Faith, unless otherwise noted.
Please support this website by becoming a member of Process & Faith.
