Magyar Egyház, 2008 (87. évfolyam, 1-4. szám)
2008-01-01 / 1. szám
MAGYAR EGYHÁZ 5. oldal Palm Sunday Psalm 31:9-16; Isaiah 50:4-9a; Philippians 2:5-11; Matthew 26:14- 27:66 Matthew 27:11-54 Today’s gospel story, at the heart of the Church’s faith, should be at the heart of our faith: that Jesus would live and die for us. That Jesus would say to our heavenly Father, “Thy will be done,” even though his commitment would lead to his death. That Jesus would have compassion on the crowds, whether they shouted praise or condemnation, whether they welcomed him as a hero or rejected him as a criminal. That Jesus was willing to suffer excruciating pain even though he did nothing to deserve it. That Jesus could have called down legions of angels to defend him, could have taken himself down from the cross, could have condemned his accusers and damned his betrayers; but instead, he hung there, knowing his death would mean the defeat of death, even if he had to go through hell to find out for sure. That in God’s eternal heart, you were present, and if you were the only person in the world, Jesus would have done this for you. This should mean the world to us. This means life. This means hope and comfort. There is no suffering we can experience that is not known by God’s very self. There is no heartache we can have that Jesus cannot touch; no temptation we can face that Jesus cannot strengthen us against; no hard decision we have to make that Jesus cannot prepare us for; no burden to carry that Jesus cannot remove; no wounds we have to bear that Jesus cannot heal; no injustice we can suffer that Jesus cannot conquer; no assaults can assail us that Jesus cannot help us to endure; no loneliness we can feel that Jesus cannot come to meet us in. The cross means there is no failure we can face that Jesus cannot fix; no sin we can commit that Jesus cannot remove; no mistake, misjudgment, act of meanness, ignorant thoughtlessness, petty-mindedness, or selfish seeking after security in this world instead of trusting in the eternal that Jesus cannot take and transform; no hardness of heart that Jesus cannot grind down and sift through and remold and reform into something that can love and receive love. Jesus would actually give his own life to transform ours. You are here because you love Jesus and are awed by his always faithful love for you, his unconditional outpouring of love for you, his grace and mercy and power for you, undeserved, immeasurable, unstoppable. Maybe you, too, join the crowd that shouts “Hosanna!” one day and “Crucify him!” the next that praises one day and forgets the next that adores one day and ignores the next. Maybe you also join the crowd that needs a savior so badly, that hungers for a reason for hope and courage, that longs to know a purpose in life, but turns away when the Savior suffers in the course of bringing that hope and courage and purpose. Perhaps you too know that the size of the crowd doesn’t matter. That Jesus would have gone to the cross and suffered death if it were only for you. If it were only for any one of us. If this is not why you are here today, then this is your invitation to get to know Jesus and his love more deeply. This is your invitation to spend time with our Savior here in worship, in reading his story of love for you, in talking with him and listening for his love to you in prayer and quiet, so you may know the freedom of forgiveness, the assurance of eternal life, true peace, and deep joy. During the Holy Week we all receive his gracious invitation to know love, to have a reason for hope, to be set free to experience joy. May we follow in the way of the cross, finding it to be none other than the way of life and peace. Amen. “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin" (Hebrews 4:15). Good Friday comes to us each year with a nearly unbearable weight of remembered pain. We know what will happen. The desperate human heart that always longs for salvation, despite its knowledge of the end of tragedy, longs to change the ending, to move it from death to rescue. How many times have we wished for the same when watching Romeo and Juliet, Antigone, or Hamlet? We want to shout to the protagonist, “No, no, don’t believe the lie. Don’t kill yourself. There is hope yet to come if you only don’t give in, if you only stay alive.” When Judas comes into the garden for the arrest, we want to cry out, “How can you, Judas? Go back; don’t betray the one who loves you.” When Pilate acknowledges that Jesus is without the guilt of political insurrection, we cry out, “Why then did you have him flogged? Why are you allowing them to choose Barabbas instead of this innocent man? Why do you give in to the cries of ‘Crucify him’?” And even as we weep at the injustice, we know that nothing can possibly change what came to pass in that distant first century. And we are sad but grateful. What if it hadn’t happened? What if Jesus had not been arrested, unjustly condemned, and crucified? Would he have lived a fairly long life only to be remembered as a good man? It is the tragedy of these days that assured the cosmos that Jesus would never be forgotten, no matter how misunderstood he was during his lifetime and in the centuries that have rolled since then. Every year during Holy Week, we read these two chapters in St. John’s gospel marveling at their simplicity, at the quiet unfolding of the greatest drama in humanity’s history, at the startling details, at the dignity of the prisoner and the folly of those accusing him, and we wait for the unbearable weight to be lifted, for the darkness to be dissolved, for us to reach Easter Sunday. During these hours, between Thursday night and Sunday morning, as we reenact the tragedy of the Cross, we also need to be aware of other tragedies: we need to feel the weight of humanity’s sorrow, of the injustice being perpetrated against so many of our brothers and sisters around the world; we need to share the guilt of those who kill the innocent, we need to be made aware of those befriended by Jesus during his lifetime - the strangers, the outcasts, the unclean - and not avert our faces. We cannot experience the sorrow of Good Friday without experiencing humanity’s sorrow also. This is the meaning of this sacred night. The writer of Second Isaiah knew all this without actually knowing the story we reenact tonight. How else can we, weak human beings, bear the sorrow we witness around us? How can we read newspapers and listen to the news of the world - so much deceit, so much injustice, so many killings, and so many wars - without the assurance that God is suffering with us? This is the night that gives meaning to what seems meaningless. All of you, who mourn on Good Friday, remember this: He too knows what suffering means. This is not a God removed from the world. Listen once again to the words of the writer of the letter to the Hebrews: “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin. ” Amen. Good Friday Isaiah 52:13-54:12; Psalm 22; Hebrews 4:14-16, 5:79; John 18, 19
