A Homily for Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion
Readings: Luke 19:28-40 Isaiah 50:4-7 Philippians 2:6-11 Luke 22:14—23:56
The liturgy of Palm Sunday is dissonant, almost schizophrenic. It begins with jubilant rejoicing only to end in bitter rejection.
The church re-creates, in a single liturgy, the rapid movement of Holy Week itself. On Sunday, Christ enters David’s city in triumph; he is its Messiah. On Friday, he is hung outside its walls; he dies a reprobate.
Consider, to the extent that we can, the mind of Jesus as he enters Jerusalem. And let us steer an appropriate middle course. If we take seriously the implications of the kenosis hymn St. Paul writes about in 2 Philippians, we have to consider that Christ did not possess the full consciousness proper to God. Here is St. Paul:
Christ Jesus, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
something to be grasped.
Rather, he emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
coming in human likeness (2 Phil 2:6-7).
This suggests that Christ does not enter the city knowing the entire course of history, the world’s or his own. We might consider that he does not even know the events of the coming week with the knowledge proper to his divinity.
On the other hand, as St. Thomas Aquinas taught, Christ retains at least the consciousness given to the prophets. He knows what God, whom he calls Father, is about, though perhaps not how divine providence will play out. Yet even if we consider him as having no more than ordinary human consciousness, Christ knows that he is in danger of imminent death. He has already survived attempts upon his life.
So, what was in the mind of Jesus? If we follow the lead of the church fathers and see seeds of revelation scattered throughout creation and history, then what is arguably the most famous and most beloved poem in American letters might help us to enter Christ’s consciousness. Here is Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.”
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
That Jesus always chose to do the will of the Father does not mean that Jesus was not tempted to follow his own will. Hebrews tells us that Christ was “one who has similarly been tested in every way, yet without sin” (4:15). We must never reduce the humanity of Christ to that of an automaton, simply acting out the mind and will of the Father. Christ possessed a fully human will, which means he chose between possibilities. Jesus always did the will of his Father because he always chose to do that will.
We can ask: Does Christ, for a moment, consider what would happen if he were to accept the people’s acclamation and then cannily decide to outwit his opponents? Suppose that Jesus was to marshal the mood of his people, lead a revolt against Rome and re-establish the Kingdom of Israel. It would surely be a just kingdom, ruled as it is by the Son of God. Did Jesus consider this road? If so, he did not choose it.
The road leading to an earthly reign would have reduced the Incarnation to only one more divine initiative in human history, one destined, like the patriarchs and prophets, to pass away. Christ cannot take this road. The Father has willed a definitive entrance into history. Christ comes not to conquer momentarily in history. He comes to reign eternally over history.
We must be clear. The Father does not will the death of the Son. He wills that the Son accompany us on the road we have chosen, wherever it leads, even through the gates of death and into hell. It is our choice of roads that took Christ to Calvary.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler
Even as he hangs upon the cross in searing pain and stifling darkness, Christ knows that he has chosen the only road he could, the one his Father willed, “and that has made all the difference.” For him and most certainly for us.
