March 29, 2026 Palm Sunday

I speak to you this morning in the name of God, who is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

270 – 15 – 81 – 84 – 87.
This may seem cryptic to you or a jumble of nonsense—unless, perhaps, you’re familiar with the eastern half of Pennsylvania. But it’s the line I thread through the network of U.S. highways and interstates when I go to see my confessor at the Episcopal Church’s Holy Cross Monastery outside of Poughkeepsie, New York.

That journey takes me past a lot of evocative place names—Gettysburg, Carlisle, Allentown, Scranton. These places carry complex and dark histories: from the sin and death of war to the atrocities and abuses of the Indian boarding school system. They lie heavy on the landscape with an oily residue of human sin all around.

And sometimes this sin is born of even the best of intentions. I think of those industrialists and working poor of Pennsylvania’s coal fields who sought the great American project of industrial revolution, even as they destroyed the health and vitality of the land and natural resources.

Sin abounds. And yet, we would be remiss if we did not acknowledge that in each of these cases, many of our fellow Christians viewed their actions as righteous. Very rarely in life are these complexities easily resolved. Time and again, we are confronted with the ambiguities and sorrows of a broken world—caught between moral quandaries that seem impossibly hard to resolve.

Very often, we look backward on even our best intentions and see in them spaces and moments of fractured brokenness.

And in some ways, this is the reality of our observance of Palm Sunday and Jesus’ so‑called triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Because that triumphalism is but a fleeting moment of elation.

To play with Leonard Cohen a bit, what we find today is a strained and broken hosanna.

Pope Benedict, in his multi‑volume work on Jesus, writes that all three synoptic Gospels, as well as St. John, make it clear that the scene of messianic homage to Jesus was played out on his entry into the city—and that those taking part were not the inhabitants of Jerusalem, but the crowds who accompanied Jesus and entered the holy city with him.

Things are almost always more complicated than they seem, are they not?

It can be easy to see today’s narrative as Jesus finally getting the earthly recognition he deserves. But that’s not exactly the case. These were ragtag folks from the fringes. The usual crowd of Jerusalemites—especially the social influencers and people of wealth and power—were not the ones participating in today’s activities.

As St. Matthew records, “The city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?’”

Remember too that it was the feast of the Passover, and people had come from all over for the festival. Matthew continues, “The crowds were saying, ‘This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.’”

The regular citizens were probably unaware of who he was or what was going on. They were perturbed that their routines were being disrupted. They likely looked askance at this spectacle and saw in it nothing more than a circus of distraction—something to gawk at or be frustrated by.

And what of this hosanna?

Pope Benedict points out that this Hebrew term, transliterated into Greek, is a liturgical phrase with ancient roots in the Jewish festival of Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles. It is a complicated term, originally with a more somber meaning: “Come to our aid—save us.”

Over time, however, the feast became more festive, and the petition became more a proclamation of joy with messianic overtones. Yet it retains some ambiguity and complexity—and that plays out in the text as well.

In Matthew’s Gospel, after the procession, the chief priests and scribes become particularly angry—among other reasons, because the children of Jerusalem are running around proclaiming hosanna in the temple. Jesus quotes Psalm 8 in reply: “Out of the mouths of infants and nursing babies you have prepared praise.”

But even here, Jesus doesn’t resolve the complexity of the situation.

Even in his crucifixion and resurrection, he doesn’t eliminate our experiences of ambiguity or alienation. He doesn’t take away our feelings of being torn—stuck in the middle, morally compromised.

What he does is stay in the fray. He offers us understanding in times of trial and tribulation.

I say this not to diminish the power of the cross or the profound reality of salvation offered once and for all—but to emphasize that what it does offer is companionship when assurance feels distant.

When we look at our palms and our hands today and see a ragamuffin band of outsiders proclaiming joy into a void, Jesus is here today saying: “I get it. I’m here. This is hard and fraught. But still—find me a donkey. Find me a colt. Be the innocent children playfully running in the temple. Remember who I am, even if no one else does. Dance in the dark. Be silly. Be joyful. The world won’t understand—but that’s okay.”

And so, when we consider who we are to be—how we are to be in the world in this moment—let us fully appreciate our own location.

Just like the other ambiguities, we do not fit neatly into one category or another. I do not truly know your hearts this morning, but I would hazard to guess that many of us here are most like the intelligentsia and state functionaries of the Jerusalem scene.

In our comfort, we look around at the chaos and often get angry or agitated because our way of life has been impacted—our comfort compromised.

Much of what we are confronting in this moment of social upheaval are long‑standing structural and social inequalities, perpetuated by powers that be for generations. We’ve simply not been aware of them because they haven’t impacted us personally.

May we find in this time and season of discomfort not exhaustion or outrage, but instead a greater awareness of those on the margins—a greater ear to listen to their stories, to let them lead us into deeper, righteous relationship.

But then, too, as the church—as a people of resurrection, joy, and hope—we as a community are also a marginalized and outside voice in a present world of cynical nihilism and materialistic obsession.

We, as a community of resurrection, remember today what our first ancestors did on that hillside morning millennia ago.

To a world full of Gettysburgs and Carlisles and Scrantons—to a world full of broken promises and lost dreams—our being the Body of Christ is a ministry of companionship, a witness of understanding and support, a witness to the silly joy in the midst of sorrow.

And like the string of numbers I began with this morning, that may sound like incoherent nonsense to the world at large. It is as though we are speaking an incomprehensible language of hope.

But that doesn’t remove its truth. That doesn’t remove its power.

And especially in times when we, as individuals in the Body of Christ, struggle to remember that truth, it gives us power to go forward.

Even now, we are witnessing the power of light over darkness. Again and again, the world over, we continue to witness the power of joy and light breaking through even the most difficult and darkest of times.

Even now, we can run and jump and shout with glee—“Save us, Hosanna!”—because the one who saves us is with us, even now.

And what a relief that is.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.