Palmesøndag af William H. Willimon



 "Suffered and Died"



http://www.chapel.duke.edu/sermons/MAR23SER.htm



                             Palm/Passion Sunday



                               March 23, 1997



                                Mark 14:32-42



"Jesus...began to be distressed and agitated, and he

said to them, 'I am deeply grieved, even to death..'."



In churches where we say the Apostles Creed on Sundays,

we say that Jesus was, "Born of the Virgin Mary,

suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, and died."



Some have noted that it is curious that this is all we

say about the life of Jesus. Not remembering, in our

creed, any of his teachings, the numerous episodes from

his life and work, all we say of Jesus was that he was

"born, suffered, and died." That's not much to remember

from so rich a life.



Or is it? For if Jesus was not only of God, with God,

but was also God, to say that he "suffered under Pontius

Pilate, was crucified, died and buried" is to say a

great deal. As the theologian, Dietrich Bonhoeffer tells

us, "It is no small matter that God allowed himself to

be pushed out of the world on a cross." No small matter.



We began this service by the waving of palm branches and

the shouting of "Hosanna!" This is Palm Sunday when

Jesus and his disciples were triumphantly received into

Jerusalem. If that was all that we remembered about

Jesus on this day, then Jesus would be remembered as

little more than a once triumphantly received hero who

marched into Jerusalem, causing the Roman overlords to

get nervous.



But today is also Passion Sunday. Before this service

ends, we will lay aside our palm branches and move

toward the passion of Christ, his suffering, his

crucifixion, his death and burial. And this is much to

remember.



Scott Peck begins his popular book, The Road Less

Traveled, with a quote from the Buddha. "Life is

suffering."



Who doesn't know this?



"In the Buddhist scriptures, there is a parable about a

woman whose child died. In her disbelief and anguish,

she accosted a local guru, begging him to intercede and

return her child to life. He agrees, 'All you have to

do,' he says to the distraught woman, 'is bring me a

grain of rice from a household that has escaped the

curse of grief.' With great hope, she goes through her

village, door by door, and through the neighboring

village, only to hear story upon story of suffering and

loss. Finally she returns to the guru, no less in pain,

but far wiser, more compassionate, and willing to accept

her human lot." ( Church, p. 33). Life is suffering.



Siddhartha Gautama, who would eventually become the

Buddha, was born to a royal family. His father sought to

raise the boy to be a great king. He shielded young

Siddhartha from any contact with life's tragic side--old

age, sickness, and death. Thus, the young prince

Siddhartha grew in total ignorance of the world's

sadness. The father built three palaces for his son, one

for each season of the year. He stocked each palace with

all sorts of earthly delights, forbidding the young

prince from traveling outside this safe hermetically,

sealed perfect world. Whenever he ventured out, the

route was carefully prepared so that there would be no

chance that the young prince would come in contact with

old age, sickness, or death.



Despite the father's best efforts to protect his son,

one day when Siddhartha and his driver were riding in

their guilded chariot through the countryside, his eye

caught sight of a strange vision--a crooked old man with

a gnarled face, hobbling with a cane in his hand.



"Who is this?" Siddhartha asked his driver.



His driver first hesitated and then replied, "Once he

was a youth, now his strength and beauty are gone and he

is withered away. This is the way of all flesh."



The very next day they encountered a dying man on their

route. When Siddhartha asked what this meant, the driver

replied that this is the way most of us end our lives,

in sickness.



At last, despite the father's precautions, Siddhartha

and his driver one day encountered a funeral procession.

The mourners were in great anguish. When asked what this

meant, the driver replied, "All who are born, die. There

is no escape."



This confrontation with old age, sickness and death

became Siddhartha's awakening. Having come face- to-face

with the tragic side of life. He found his life, despite

his father's earnest efforts, hollow, empty. Thus he

began his pilgrimage. The Buddha's pilgrimage led him

toward a way of life which would leave him invulnerable

to life's pain. For the Buddha, this was the point of

life, to reach that state where one no longer feels, or

grieves, or weeps. One becomes detached, distant, free

from life's pain. Though pain is unavoidable, one can

come to the point where one simply cares so little, one

feels nothing, taught the Buddah.



Forrest Church notes that possibly the closest thing to

Buddhist detachment that we have in Western philosophy

is Stoicism. Stoicism was popular around the time of

Jesus. Taking the death of Socrates as their model, the

Stoics attempted to live their lives heroically,

serenely detached from pain. The way to do this is to

keep life in its place, not become too heavily involved,

not to care, said the stoics.



"We must get rid of this craving for life," wrote the

Roman philosopher Seneca, "and learn that it makes no

difference when your suffering comes, because at

sometime you are bound to suffer." The Stoics elevated

apathy as the supreme human virtue, detachment as an

antidote to desire and inevitable disappointment.



And why not? Denial of life, serene detachment, is a

completely understandable, reasonable response to life's

pain. What are you to do to avoid suffering which is

brought on by grief? Don't become attached to anything

whose loss would cause you grief. The way to avoid

unhappiness in love is never to fall in love. I have

known people who have been hurt by love, who steadfastly

resolved never to love again. Presumably, they were

never grieved by love. And yet they never loved.



Do you see why it makes all the difference that Jesus

walked the path he walked? This day, Jesus enters

Jerusalem. He isn't fooled by our shouts of "Hosanna."

He knows that our acclamations are short lived. When

Peter blurts out, on Thursday night around the table,

"Lord, though all fall away, I will stick by you," Jesus

knows that, before the cock crows, Peter will also deny

him. The way Jesus walks, he walks alone.



Jesus could have taken another path. Jesus could have

remained serenely detached from all of this.  He was

God. He did not have to climb up on the cross. He could

have taken another turn after his prayer in the Garden

of Gethsemane.



And yet, the scriptures agree, he suffered under Pontius

Pilate, and was crucified, was dead and buried.



Jesus was no Stoic. He took a very different path than

the Buddah. The Buddah dealt with suffering by rising

above it. Jesus embraced it, drank the cup of pain to

the dregs.



God, our God entered the suffering and pain of this

world. He did not give us a way out of it, or around it,

but a way through it. The way that he first walked. This

means that you can walk down your paths of pain with

dignity, because you follow behind him. This means that

no matter how dark grows your night, he is there, in the

darkness, beside you. There is no betrayal or

disappointment you suffer, that he does not know. It is

no small thing that our God allowed himself to be pushed

out of the world on a cross.



Just before he was hung by the Nazis, Dietrich

Bonhoeffer wrote, "For a Christian there is nothing

particularly difficult about Christmas in a prison

cell." Why? You can understand if you listen to the

words of a prayer that he wrote while in prison: "Lord

Jesus Christ, Thou wast poor and in misery, a captive

and as forsaken as I. Thou knowst all man's distress;

Thou abidist with me when all others have deserted me."

Even in jail, he was not alone.











[Thanks to the help from Forrest Church Lifelines:

Holding On (And Letting Go), Boston, MA, Beacon Press,

1996. pp. 33ff.]