Sermon Notes Palm Sunday

This week we recognise two very different emotional journeys: the Palm procession, where joyous choruses ring out!

Palm Sunday isn’t just celebration—it’s challenge.

It’s protest.

It’s an interruption to the "norm" because the norm had become ridiculous.

Donkey? Coats on ground? Palms waving?

This is weird.

Shouting Hosannas - save us - also strange.

Because: Hosanna means SAVE US.

WHat is our hosanna today?

WHat do we want or need saving from?

And how on earth - literally - are we going to do that?

What is our non-violent protest?

How are we going to destabilise the cruelty and injustice of the world - with love and non-violence and faith...

Palm Sunday - as the journey to Holy Week begins - this is the triumph of hope.

It's the voice of hope for a better world that cries out those Hosannas.

It's the voice that we still need to cry out with today: for the world is certainly needing us to stand up for what is right and just and holy.

The world needs us to love: ridiculously - even with a donkey.

As we enter Holy Week, may God guide our footsteps - to stand against the evil in the world, that would still subvert the love that God offers.

Let us stand firm in our own Hosannas - for the Gospel is not just about what happened some 2000 years ago.

It's about our lives, our faith, our choices today.

Hosanna, Lord, Hosanna.

Sermon, Lent 5 (Year A)

It’s not uncommon during Lent to have readings like we have today: a little bit awkward and uncomfortable – and ending with hope.
Now, we all know that hope is not a strategy; but it is a reality of how we put our faith into action.

As one diplomat said last week: Hope is a choice – a very practical one.
We’re at a point in the world where we could all use a little – or a lot – of hope.
So when we frame that as a practical choice – deeply rooted in our strong faith – hope becomes almost tangible.
Hope is a great starting point for us to focus on what really matters in this life: love, faith, justice, peace… rather than being distracted by the minutia of our daily lives.
I’m not saying the minutia isn’t important – it very much is – but when we think about defining our lives, we tend not to think about unloading the dishwasher or the commute to work.

So let’s think about the uncomfortable readings for a few moments.

Ezekiel gives us this field of dry bones – a little eerie and unpleasant.
And then God inviting the prophet to have a conversation with them.
It’s weird.

…Until we realise that the bones are not meant to be taken literally, but symbolically.
They represent people – the Biblical people of Israel.
These Israelites were the people of faith, who were struggling.
Their very name – isra-el meaning those who struggle with God.
They are normal people, trying to do the best they can, trying to live their lives in faithful ways, and feeling a little depleted. Drained. Done.
These are the people who say “Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.'

It’s uncomfortable to admit when we’re just not feeling it; when the weight of the world is hanging heavily around our shoulders.
Yet who among us hasn’t been there at some point? Who hasn’t felt frustrated by the events of the news… or futile in the light of the big picture… or just flattened by the messiness of life.
We’re human. It happens.

Yet the scriptures remind us that when we are most deflated is when we are most ready to receive new breath.
The breath of life, of God, of justice.
And there we begin to be re-filled with the spirit of community, and of grace, and of hope.
God promised the people they would be reunited with one another, in a healthy and whole place.
But they would also remember what that discomfort felt like: and so they would be encouraged to work to prevent backsliding into it again.
God filled them with breath – and with hope.

That’s the kind of holy hope that makes us all want to breathe a little bit deeper right now, isn’t it.
To fill ourselves with that life-giving presence that will re-fuel us in the work of justice.

Paul amplifies this sentiment when he writes to the church in Rome – reminding them that they are mortal.
And sadly, death happens. But – that life happens more.
We are not just the earthly sinews and structures that are found within our bodies; we are people who carry within us the spirit of the divine.
We aren’t human beings having an occasional spiritual experience;
We are spiritual beings having our human experience.

Which is hopeful – and helpful – that even when our bodies fail to do what we want them to do, our spiritual selves are never diminished.
Sometimes we keep our focus on our bodies – the earthly constructs that we know and exist within.
But again – hope supports us as we see the emphasis on life and peace that God has blessed us all with.

The Gospel today is… not subtle.
Jesus here invites us to consider how many times in our lives we have expected someone else to come along and do something.
To feed the hungry, to house the homeless, to lift up the broken-hearted, etc.
And Jesus instead invites us to realise that God has put us here to do just that.
To get involved in practices where we feel uncomfortable… where we don’t have all the answers… where we can’t do it alone… where it seems impossible.
We ask God to do the things to change our earthly situation to what we think is best, rather than trying to focus on God’s work happening in God’s time.
Jesus instead invites us to act with hope.
To do something. To become involved in initiatives and practices that can and do make the world a better place.
Even when they may make us uncomfortable at times.

Certainly, Jesus was not afraid to sit in the discomfort.
He joined in the physical, emotional, and spiritual reality of the world that faced him.
He sat with Mary and Martha, and wept with them in their grief.
He didn’t try to ignore the practicalities of death, as Martha reminds him of how quickly decay can come.
He rejected the spiritual bypass of loss, with a ‘quick-fix’ prayer or deflection of responsibility.
He sat. He wept.
He prayed an honest prayer.

And then he demonstrated the power of life over death – a power that only God can give – as he invited Lazarus to come out of the tomb.
He didn’t go into the tomb; he waited for Lazarus to act.

And Lazarus began to unbind himself enough to stand and emerge.
And the family began to unbind him, undoing the bonds they themselves had put on him.
And the community began to unbind themselves of the paralysis they had felt, shedding their apathy and lack of compassion and self-centredness, as they moved into their days – even the minutia – with a renewed understanding of the power of hope.

And we are invited to do the same.
To look inward to see where we have been bound by ourselves or by the world, and to see where we have bound others.
And while it’s uncomfortable, it’s also the first step to UNbinding –
And my goodness, what hope that potential can give us.

The world is messy. It’s uncomfortable. It’s feeling very Lent-y.
We don’t need to wait for someone else to tell us what to do to fix it: because God has already given us what we need:
the spirit of life, and the blessing of hope.
May we then recognise that the voice of God speaking into our hearts is unbinding us from all that denies life; and hear the invitation of Jesus to go into the world and shine the light of hope.