Put it to death

“Sometimes things need to be destroyed so that something new can be created.” So my spiritual director said to me on the first occasion of our meeting–a meeting I had sought as I desperately tried to make sense of my growing understanding that my marriage was coming to an end. 

I recently came upon that same idea in the book we’re discussing in our Sunday morning Adult Education class, [Where We Meet: A Lenten Study of Systems, Stories, and Hope, by Rachel Gilmore, Candace Lewis, Tyler Sit, and Matt Temple]: “Sometimes things must die so that something more in harmony with the (kin)dom of God can emerge.” (Where We Meet, p. 50)

Certainly, that idea is not new, nor is it limited to those two occurrences! Indeed, those statements encapsulate a central tenet of the Christian faith: that resurrection comes only after death. That new life comes only after something dies. That rebirth into a new way of being comes only after the old way of being is no more.

And while we might long for that resurrection while it’s still far off, and welcome that new life once it comes, and celebrate that new way of being once we’re in it–we generally do not like the prospect of “it” [the thing that needs to die, whatever it is] being no more; we’re typically quite resistant to the process of it dying; we’re quite uncomfortable with the reality of its death

And yet…it is only through death that we get to resurrection. 

And so, in these remaining two weeks of Lent, I invite you to join me in considering, what is it that needs to die in our lives so that something new–and more in alignment with God’s desires for peace, for healing, for joy, for reconciliation, for wholeness, for justice, for abundance–and all of that for all of God’s creation!–might be born? 

Perhaps we need to put to death a grudge, or a desperately-held, long-harbored hurt. Or our certainty about what’s right and who’s right. Or a hurtful relationship or a self-destructive habit. 

Perhaps we need to put to death a diminished view of ourselves or others, or possibly, a grandiose view of ourselves or others. Or the lens through which we look, that judges others as less than–or more than–based on their education or ethnicity or religious affiliation or lack thereof. Or our blindness to our privilege or our secret and subtle self-righteousness. 

Perhaps we need to put to death our secret, soul-sucking excesses–alcohol, shopping, fault-finding, Facebook, working, gambling, people-pleasing, eating, or simply endlessly comparing ourselves to others. 

What would you add? What needs to die in our lives, both individually and collectively, right here and right now, so that something new and more in alignment with God’s desires for each of us and all of us and for all of God’s creation might be born? 

Where do we need death, so that we might prepare for and truly experience resurrection?? 

Peace and courage be with us all.

Pastor Deb

You started out as dirt

by Rev. Deb Beloved Church

“You are dust, and to dust you shall return.” (Genesis 3:19b) 

Some version of that verse is typically said as the sign of the cross is being made with ashes on someone’s forehead on Ash Wednesday. 

For example, as I was “ashing” folks who came to White Rock Presbyterian Church last Wednesday, I said this: “Remember–you came from dust, and to dust you will return…” 

[Each year I think maybe I’ll use the late Rev. Eugene Peterson’s interpretation as found in The Message: “You started out as dirt, you’ll end up dirt.” That strikes me as even more powerful! It is, in fact, what I said when I blessed the horses of a friend the next day, using actual dirt from the ground on which we were standing… Maybe next year I’ll use it with the two-legged creatures, and see how it lands for us all…]

“Tempranillo, remember that you came from dirt,

and to dirt you will return…”

And since this year Ash Wednesday happened to also be Valentine’s Day, here’s another way to think about it: 

At first glance, it seemed strange to have those two holidays (or more better, perhaps, holy days) fall on the same date, but looking back, I can’t help but reflect that perhaps it was truly a gift… 

Might the occurrence of our cultural celebration of loving and being loved on the same day that we who are people of faith intentionally acknowledge our mortality, somehow enhance both of those central aspects of our humanity–the relational albeit finite nature of our existence? 

None of our human loves—whether of a child, parent, partner, sibling, cousin, friend, etc., or a non-human companion—will last forever. We will all someday die, and those loves in their present form will come to an end. All living things are mortal and finite.

And while that truth can be heartbreakingly painful to acknowledge, might it also make our loving more sweet? Might it make our time together more cherished? Might it make our conflicts more critical to resolve? Might it generate more urgency for us to show up more fully and more authentically? Might it make us more grateful for the opportunities we have to love and be loved? 

Hmmm…

We are approaching the second Sunday of Lent already; Ash Wednesday feels like a distant memory. Perhaps as we move further into this holy season, we can not only consider our mortality, not only allow greater recognition of our sin, not only attempt to see with greater clarity the ways we hide our true selves, not only make more deliberate efforts to turn back to God… But we can also hold on to and celebrate that in the midst of our flawed, finite, and finicky humanity, we love and are loved by the humans and non-humans in our lives, and by God.

Yes, we are dust and to dust we will return. Yes, we started out as dirt and we’ll end up dirt. Yes, we were born and we will die. We. will. die

And…in the midst of that—and before that, and after that, and beyond that—we are loved. We are loved absolutely, and unconditionally, and unceasingly, by the God who created us out of dust, and who created the dust. 

Thanks be to God!

“Seen by [the James] Webb [Space Telescope] in unprecedented detail, Sagittarius C is a star-forming region about 300 light-years away from the supermassive black hole at the Milky Way’s center. (https://www.flickr.com/photos/nasawebbtelescope/53344798019/in/gallery-zexonaz-72157720865766128/)

Return to the deep sources

by Rev. Talitha Arnold, Senior Pastor, United Church of Santa Fe

Return to the deep sources, nothing less
Will nourish the torn spirit, the bewildered heart. . .
Will teach the stiff hands a new way to serve,
To carve into our lives the forms of tenderness.

“Return to the deep sources,” wrote poet May Sarton. “Nothing less will nourish the torn spirit, the bewildered heart.” The seasons of the Christian calendar—Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Easter, and Pentecost—Lent can lead us back to such deep sources. Whether we live in New Mexico or elsewhere, the Christian seasons call us to particular places—a stable in Bethlehem, a wedding in Cana, the courts of Herod, and a hill called Calvary. Sometimes the journey to such places can be hard. But, it also holds the promise of healing and strength, even new life.

In the Middle Ages, Christians went on pilgrimages to the holy places of the Christian story, like Jerusalem or Rome. For those who couldn’t undertake such treks, cathedrals had labyrinths as a way to go on pilgrimage without leaving home.

The liturgical year of the Christian church offers us a “pilgrimage in time.” Like those medieval journeys to Jerusalem or the labyrinth’s path to the sacred center, the Christian year calls us time and again to find our place alongside people like Moses in the Sinai wilderness or Mary at Calvary. With them, we find our way home to God, be it from the slavery of Egypt or the grief of the cross.

Lent in particular calls us to return to the deep sources. Step into the sanctuary and you know you’re in a different world from the week just past. Gone are the colors and candles of Epiphany and Mardi Gras, replaced with a purple banner with a thin red cross in its center. Just as we give up things for Lent, the sanctuary itself is stripped-down to its essence this season.

The same is true musically. For six weeks, we neither sing nor say “Alleluia” or “Hallelujah.” Monastic chants, spirituals from a time of suffering, hymns from the heart—the music is often in a minor key, sometimes a cappella. Services end with no postlude.

We use ancient prayers of confession, with phrases like “lost and strayed” or “erred from thy ways.” They sound harsh and unfamiliar, just like the barrenness of the sanctuary and the dissonance of the music.

And that’s the point. When we come to worship in Lent, we know we are in the wilderness and we’re going to be there for a while.

But when we come to this Lenten wilderness, we also know we’re not alone. Lent begins with Jesus in the desert, where he wrestles with his demons, faces his temptations, and finds his angels. He also finds the deep sources of his courage and hope. May we find the same this Lent.

As writer Frederick Buechner says about Lent, “if sackcloth and ashes are at the start of it, something like Easter may be at the end.”

This Lent, let us take that life-giving journey together.

A Reflection for the New Year

by Rev. Deborah Beloved Church

“To every thing there is a season, 

and a time to every purpose under the heaven…”

(Ecclesiastes 3:1; King James Version)

Familiar words to many (thanks in no small part to the Byrds! For the full Biblical version, click here:  Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, KJV), and words that seem fitting for this time of bidding farewell to 2023 and bidding welcome to 2024.

As we reflect on the year that has come to a close, and take our first steps into yet another “new” one, perhaps it might be helpful to remember: 

“To every thing there is a season, 

and a time to every purpose under the heaven…” 

As we remember the ups and the downs of the year that has ended–the pleasant and the unpleasant, the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly, and everything in-between, let us not feel drawn to claim only the “ups”–the pleasant, the good, and the beautiful (and hope for more of all of that in the coming year); and judge or feel shame or want to hide or deny the “downs”–what feels unpleasant, bad, and ugly (and long for less of all of that in the year that’s just begun). Rather, let us remember:

“To every thing there is a season, 

and a time to every purpose under the heaven…”

May we acknowledge and hold with tenderness the times of grief and sadness, as we also give thanks for those of joy and delight…

“To every thing there is a season, 

and a time to every purpose under the heaven…”

May we acknowledge and hold with kindness the reality of our exhaustion, as we also give thanks for momentary surges of energy…

“To every thing there is a season, 

and a time to every purpose under the heaven…”

May we acknowledge and hold with gentleness the expressions of heartache and anger, as we also give thanks for manifestations of compassion and generosity…

“To every thing there is a season, 

and a time to every purpose under the heaven…”

May we acknowledge and hold with grace the moments of anxiety and fear, as well as those of trust and abiding love…

“To every thing there is a season, 

and a time to every purpose under the heaven…”

May we hold space for it all, with tenderness and kindness, with gentleness and grace–for ourselves, for our loved ones, for our neighbors, and even for those we consider our enemies. May we hold space for it all, with vulnerability and with courage, recognizing that, indeed…

“To every thing there is a season, 

and a time to every purpose under the heaven…”

And as we hold space or it all, may we also recognize those seasons that have nourished us, and those that have depleted us. May we see those experiences that have caused our souls to wither and shrivel, and those that have caused our hearts to blossom and expand. May we acknowledge those occasions that have led us to shake our fist at God and rage against the universe, and weep and wail and withdraw, as well as those in which we have found ourselves engaging and rejoicing and giving thanks at the beauty and wonder of it all…

“To every thing there is a season, 

and a time to every purpose under the heaven…”

As we reflect on the year that has come to a close, and take our first steps into yet another “new” one, perhaps it might be helpful to not only remember that, but also to remember… 

As people of faith we claim and proclaim 

that in every season and in every time, 

God, the Maker of Heaven and Earth

God, Creator of all that is

God, who was and is and is to come

God, who took on flesh and walked among us as Jesus of Nazareth

God, who dwells in all persons as the Holy Spirit

God, Emmanuel…

is with us! 

Now and forever and always. 

Thanks be to God!

And Happy New Year!

Being Soul-Centered

by Rev. Lynne Hinton

In his book, Soul Keeping, author John Ortberg writes about caring for the soul. He explains that Jesus calls us to a deep life, a life that pushes beyond everyday desires and interests. In one chapter, he describes how the soul needs a center; and I was particularly drawn to the idea that without a center, the soul is easily thrown, easily distracted, and easily destroyed.

Ortberg tells the story of being with friends at an open-air street market and how they all were drawn to a mechanical bull. Ortberg is talked into riding and reluctantly agrees to give it a try; but before he jumps on, he is given a few instructions.

“’There are twelve levels of difficulty on this bull,’ the operator explained. It might not be all that easy, but the key is you have to stay centered, and the only way to do that is to sit loose. People try to clamp on too tight. Don’t do that. You have to be flexible. If you think you can be in control of the ride you’ll never make it. You have to follow the bull. You have to keep moving. Shift your center of gravity as the bull moves.’”

Ortberg successfully managed to stay on the bull for a few minutes, thinking he had mastered every move of the mechanical animal, feeling quite pleased with himself and what he imagined was a natural ability to ride and not fall off. After the nods and smiles of congratulations from his friends, he turned to the operator, expecting some high praise. Instead what he heard was, “That was level one.” And Ortberg was soon taken to level two. He writes, “Level two lasted maybe a second. The bull won.”

We can ride a long time in level one. It’s not that hard to hang on and get through the easy, slow bumps in life. It’s when we’re hit with real suffering, thrown about in fits and starts by an uncontrollable ride that we really come to find out just how centered we really are and just how flexible we can be.

These are not easy days for any of us and we are truly being tested with how long we can ride, how easily we can hold onto to our faith without needing to control. We are in a season of rough riding and perhaps it is a season that can remind us to find our center, to stay connected to what feeds our souls, to loosen our grip on how we think things should go, trust that even if we fall, we land in grace, and then just stay engaged, stay in the ride for as long as it takes.

As we continue to watch wars escalate in the world, gun violence increase, suffering grow, let us dig deep, find the center of our souls, breathe into the moment and ride.

We are not alone.

A Teacher of Faith

by Rev. Lynne Hinton

Like many of the hospice patients I served, this one became my teacher. He was a composer, author, philosopher, and artist. He also happened to have ALS. After receiving that diagnosis, he lost the use of his arms and hands. This meant that he could no longer express himself in the creative ways familiar to him. He also lost much of his ability to speak. Every word required great effort until finally, after an hour of conversation about saints and mystics, the stories he was convinced I needed to learn, he stopped talking. “I’m tired,” he would say, and so, we would turn to silence.

My teacher didn’t have a plan for what he was going to do when his disease progressed. This frustrated a lot of people. And if I’m honest, there were times when I wished he could tell me that he had a place to go, money to spend, or a reliable person to take care of him. But this was not his way. This had never been his way. “The things I need, the people I need, they all show up when I need them,” he kept reminding me, and as hard as it was not to ask for proof, I believed him. This is, after all, my understanding of the very essence of faith. To believe in the unbelievable, to hope even when there is no clear reason to do so, to trust that what we need will come to us in the time it is most needed.

In all the religious places and events where I have been and served, there are very few people I know who are actually living out that kind of faith. There are none that I know who follow the mandates of Jesus when he told his newly chosen disciples as they were going out, “take no gold, or silver, or copper in your belts, no bag for your journey, or two tunics or sandals or a staff.” All the good folks in my circles, myself included, carry at least one backpack on whatever mission trip we agree to. And most people don’t really believe that Jesus was talking to everyone when he said, “sell all your belongings and give the money to the poor.” I have found that most ministers have a little nest egg set aside for retirement. The truth is that many say they live by faith but very few test it like my teacher from years ago. And though some may have admired his lack of anxiety over having no resources, calling it faith, there were others who criticized him for his apathy, calling him lazy and irresponsible. Still, he upheld a set of values that many people claim to honor. He believed in what he could not see. He trusted that what he needed would come.

And in the end it did, in fact, work out for him. A week before he died, he hired caregivers from Craigslist; and they were there for him when he transitioned from this world to the next. With only knowing him a few days, they, like me, loved him instantly and surrounded him in the peaceful presence he was waiting for. They met all his needs.

It’s been a while since my teacher died, but I will never forget his lessons. I can only hope that one day what I learned from him will come true for me. What I need will arrive in just the time I need it; I simply must believe.

To be like those who dream

by Rev. Talitha Arnold, Senior Pastor, United Church of Santa Fe

When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion,
we were like those who dream.
Then our mouth was filled with laughter,
and our tongue with shouts of joy.

Psalm 126:1-2

Every fall as I drive to work, I feel like those ancient Israelites, filled with laughter and shouts of joy. Why? Because of the bright yellow cowpen daisies that spring up in every nook and cranny, empty field and street divider around Santa Fe this time of year. How can we not be filled with joy and thanks for such beauty in unlikely places?

But the composer of Psalm 126 also knew life isn’t always so abundant. The Psalm was written for the children and grandchildren of the Israelites who managed to make it back from the devastating exile in Babylon. Behind the shouts of joy and laughter were years of hardship and uncertainty.

In 2005, the southwestern United States was in the tenth year of a devastating drought. The pinon trees that covered the hills throughout northern New Mexico were among the casualties of the dry times. Stressed by drought and susceptible to bark beetles, they died by the thousands. Once green landscapes turned brown and grey with dead trees. For longtime residents, it felt like a death in the family.

But in late August, it started to rain. Within days, fields of wildflowers sprang up. We couldn’t believe our eyes. Yellow cowpen daisies, purple asters, and rare flowers not seen in a century covered the land. Scientists observed that it wasn’t only the rain that produced the riot of color. The needles of the dead pinons had provided the mulch and nutrients needed by long-dormant seeds. The trees would never be restored, but their death gave birth to a new beauty as far as the eye could see.

“May those who sow with tears, reap with shouts of joy,” proclaimed the Psalmist. “Those who go out weeping shall come home with shouts of joy.” The preacher-composer reminded the people of God’s power to call forth new life—and joy—in even the driest and deadest of times. The psalmist also called them, and us, to be “like those who dream”—to trust God’s possibilities in the hard times of our lives, our communities, our families or this world.

Whether our hopes be a return from exile or acres of cowpen daisies and purple asters, may the God of power and possibility give us the courage to “be like those who dream.”

And . . . may we be open to possibilities already present.

The Power of the Float

by Rev. Lynne Hinton

One of my favorite activities is to float; but I find myself, especially in unfamiliar waters, not always able to let go and relax. I get anxious, worried about what might be beneath me or what might be coming my way; and when I do, it isn’t long before I began to sink.

Floating Takes Faith is the name of a book of essays written by Rabbi David Wolpe. In the essay with this title, Wolpe writes that even something as simple as honoring Shabbat can be hard. He writes that swimming requires us to kick, stroke, and move while floating asks us to be still, to trust the buoyancy of the water. In the ocean, he says, the swimmer propels his or her body under the wave but the floater rises on the crest. “Sim­i­lar­ly, the one who works on him­self or her­self all week should aim to float on Shab­bat. Float­ing will car­ry you high­er than the often-stren­u­ous effort of the week…Shabbat asks us to trust the wave of God’s world.”

Trusting the waves in an ocean is not always easy. Neither is always trusting God. Many times I’d prefer to swim over the choppy water, dive through the turbulence, not simply stretch out and ride it out. But faith requires us to believe in the goodness of God, to trust that even in the high or unsettled waters, we can look to God.

Dr. Jeremiah Wright tells the story of going out with his family on a boat for a day of deep sea fishing. After a couple of hours, he noticed that his eight year old daughter was missing. Frantically, they searched the boat only to find she was not anywhere on board. The crew finally decided that she must have fallen off the boat and the coast guard was called. Within minutes a rescue boat arrived. Dr. Wright joined the search crew and they began making concentric circles outward, with the charter boat as their center. The circles grew wider and wider, and then about 45 minutes after they started they spotted his daughter, lying on her back, bobbing in the water. When they got to her, they cut the engines off, and when they did, what they heard was this, an eight year old child singing a little song, floating on her back in the middle of the ocean, seemingly not even worried.

When they got to her in the boat, and after they knew she was all right, the captain asked Dr. Wright’s daughter what she thought about when she fell off the boat.

And she said, “Daddy always told me if I ever got in trouble when we were in the water, to just turn over on my back and float and to sing this song so I wouldn’t be afraid…’Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world.’”

And the Captain said, “So you weren’t afraid?”                          

And she said, “I was a little, but I knew that Daddy would be looking out for me, and that he would come and get me as soon as he knew I was gone.”

Whatever waters you find yourself in this week, remember that you can trust that you are not alone, that you will not drown. And go ahead, lean into the waters, close your eyes. Float.

The human desire to put God in a box

by Rev. Deb Church

“To what can I compare this generation? They are like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling out to others:

‘We played the pipe for you, and you did not dance;
we sang a dirge, and you did not mourn.’

For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, ‘He has a demon.’ The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’ But wisdom is proved right by her deeds.” (Matthew 11:16-19, NIV)

These verses are part of Sunday’s lectionary Gospel text, and they got me thinking about the human desire to put God in a box… Here are a few more contemporary examples (or perhaps you have your own):

“I prayed desperately to God that my sister would survive when she got cancer. She didn’t. People told me if I had prayed harder, she would have lived…”

“So many people all over the world are starving. How can there possibly be a loving God who allows that to continue to happen??”

“When I go to church, I want to be comforted and inspired. The new minister says things that make me feel bad, so I don’t go any more. I just don’t believe God wants me to feel bad when I go to church!”

“There are so many lies told in the name of God, so much hurt inflicted in the name of God– God, can’t you please just smite the people who are saying and doing those terrible, hurtful things??”

“It says in the Bible, ‘Women should be silent in the churches. For they are not permitted to speak but should be subordinate…’ [1 Corinthians 14:34, NRSV] It seems perfectly clear that there should not be women preachers!”

Like the people of Jesus’s time, we like to think we know God–how God will act, of whom God approves, when God will show up, why (and on whom) God will pronounce both favor and judgment, what God has to say about a certain situation, etc.

Like the people of Jesus’s time, we are also people of faith, and therefore, we know God. And we know those things about God.

Well, we think we know those things…because surely, we know God…

Okay, if we’re honest, we really want to know those things…because we desperately want to believe that we know God. Because if we can convince ourselves that we know God, then we can convince ourselves that we understand God. And we believe we understand God, then we can predict God’s involvement in our lives, and in our neighbors’ lives, and in the lives of folks all around the world. And if we can predict God’s involvement in the world around us, then we can count on God’s action, when and where and how we expect it. And above all, perhaps, we will be assured that what we’re saying and doing and thinking and believing about God is good and right and true (and…that “theirs” is not).

Like the people of Jesus’s time, we know not of what we speak…

Like the people of Jesus’s time, we know not of whom we speak…

Like the people of Jesus’s time, who were also people of faith, when we claim certainty about God, and about how and where and when and among whom God will show up in the world, we will almost certainly miss it…

Like the people of Jesus’s time, we must not put God in a box. Instead, Jesus challenges us to look for signs of God’s presence, as “proved…by her deeds.” (Matt. 11:19b)

When we see truth, there is God.
When we see kindness, there is God.
When we see justice with mercy, there is God.
When we see solidarity with those who are suffering, there is God.
When we see deep laughter, gentleness, humility, and wisdom, there is God.
When we see compassion, peace, joy, and generosity, there is God.
When we see healing and reconciliation, there is God.
When we see wholeness, there is God.
When we see love, there is God.

We cannot know with certainty how and where and when and among whom God will show up. But we can know without a doubt that God is present and at work, in our lives and in all of God’s creation.

Almighty and Tender God, may our eyes and ears and minds and spirits be open to truly know you, to humbly see you, and to courageously join you in your work in the world.

May it be so.

The Unexpected Parade

by Rev. Lynne Hinton

In an essay entitled “In Today, Already Walks Tomorrow,” Joseph Hankins recalls a Peanuts cartoon from years ago. In the first panel Charlie Brown says to Linus, “I learned something in school today. I signed up for folk guitar, computer programming, art, and a music appreciation class.” He continues, “I got spelling, history, arithmetic, and two study periods.” “So, what did you learn?” Linus asks. And Charlie Brown replies, “I learned that what you sign up for and what you get are two different things.” (Vital Speeches of the Day, October, 1997.)

If you’ve lived long enough, you totally understand what Charlie Brown is saying. One author wrote, “If you want to hear God laugh, go ahead and tell your plans.” Life rarely turns out like we expect. And perhaps no event teaches us this lesson more clearly than the event of Palm Sunday.

From the gospels we learn that Jesus and his followers come into Jerusalem and there is quite a show. For all reasonable purposes, it certainly seems like a parade and it seems like a political parade because of the waving of palms, the symbol of Jewish independence, waved for national heroes and because of what they say, at least in Mark’s version. They shout Hosanna, the nearest translation in English being, “God save the king!” The people participating in this parade, people marching and singing and shouting and waving palms, have a certain expectation of what this event means. Jesus is the new king of Israel and the days of oppression under Rome are coming to an end. Jesus is taking them to a revolution, to freedom from occupation. Jesus is finally setting them free. That’s what they expect. The parade people, maybe the disciples, maybe everyone, expect that Jesus is getting ready to change everything. And on that mark, they are right, but their expectations of how Jesus was going to do that were however, completely off the mark.

There is a lot about life that turns out that way, don’t you think? There are a lot of things we begin with that turn out to be completely different in the end. We get married and expect that we will always be in love with that person. We expect that we will be together until death do us part. And then, well, marriage isn’t quite what we expected and we find ourselves separated and then divorced. We have children, raise them up expecting them to share our values, want the same things in life that we do, and then we discover that our children are nothing like we expected. We go to college, pick a major, and expect that we will find careers that suit us, that fit who we are, and that we will stay in the same place with the same company forever. And well, all of us know how that turns out. We put our money in 401K’s. We invest in secure places. We expect that we can retire and live without too much discomfort and oh, haven’t we discovered that our expectations didn’t work out quite as we had thought? We expect that we will be ready for the deaths of loved ones and we aren’t. We expect that our health will hold up and it doesn’t. We expect that our church will always be there and we expect that nations will be moral. So often, none of these things are true. But the important part of this story is that Jesus shows up. Even when he must understand the peoples’ presence, his disciples’ expectations and friends’ dreams are not in line with what is about to happen. Still he shows up, with humility and wisdom. And love.

John Vannorsdall wrote: “Palm Sunday is not a day when we throw up our hands because Jesus was killed. It’s not a day of pessimism when we condemn the people who went home to supper, the crowds which later became ugly. It’s not a day when we get morose over the money changers in the temple and declare that nothing ever turns out well, that even God’s small parade was a fiasco. Palm Sunday, rather, is a day when we say, knowing all of this, knowing that people are fickle, get tired of parades and go home, knowing that religious leaders like things neat and tidy and kill reformers, knowing that the humble truth teller is walked upon, knowing that people will sell their souls for a handful of silver, knowing that even good friends will sleep when we suffer, it’s a day when knowing all this, Jesus came riding.”

The truth in Palm Sunday is that the event that started in a parade to celebrate Jesus, ended in a mob gathering to kill Jesus. And the lesson to be learned is that nothing ever really turns out as we expected. That doesn’t, however, mean that we have been forsaken by God. It doesn’t mean we are being punished or abandoned. It means that even when the parade doesn’t take you where you want to go, there is still the opportunity to grow in your faith, and share in the work of grace you have been called to do. Even as our expectations are not fulfilled, God is still present, active, and involved in our lives.