Someone, on Facebook of course, defined surrealism as this feeling like you’re overreacting and under-reacting to the same thing at the same time.
And that’s what these last three weeks have felt like.
Surreal.
I’m either freaking out about the virus coming to infect the ones I love, putting them all on ventilators, firing them from their jobs, taking away their health care and their livelihoods and their sanity. Or I’m telling myself that this is no big deal and it’s just going to blow over, the kids will be back in school soon, everyone is just overreacting with their masks and their gloves and their hoarding of all the toilet paper.
I feel both of these things at the same time. Like Goldilocks, nothing ever feels quite right. Nothing ever feels like I’ve found the exact right fit, the exact right way to be, the exact right level with which to function.
The experts and the model makers and the predictors of such things tell us that this is the calm before the storm. They say that next week, it’s going to get bad. The death toll will rise. People we know will get sick, if they aren’t already, and the medical system will be taxed to its limit.
Meanwhile, the best thing we can do is sit tight, sit still, stay put. It’s the most loving and considerate thing to do - to do nothing. Don’t go to the store, don’t visit the grandparents, no playdates or playgrounds or going out to eat. Stay put and be. Wait it out. Hang on.
I’ve been swaying between over-functioning and under-functioning, between panic and complacency, between ignorance and too much information, all week. I’ve been focused on my kids at one minute, and then distracted by Facebook the next. I’ve caught up on the laundry but let the kitchen floors go. I’ve called all my parishioners and checked up on everyone, and I’ve also stared at the blank wall, wondering what in the world I’m going to tell you this week.
I’ve been hopeful and optimistic one minute and then negative and despairing the next. To be honest, this is not that much different from normal life for me, just much more focused and intense. Much more concentrated. So I’ve been trying to be easy on myself. Sleep when I’m tired, walk when the weather is nice, do the work when my kids let me, take it one moment and one breath at a time. But most of the time, I’m just trying to cope, trying to get through the next minute, trying not to beat myself up too much for trying too hard or not trying hard enough.
I have all kinds of self-deprecating thoughts: I think I should have gone to nursing school, so I could be helpful during this time. I think I could be doing more, like my friend who does drive-thru meals for those in need on the South SIde. I think about all the ways I’ve failed and forgotten and messed up and now I’m at home, waiting for the storm to pass over. If I had some skill, if I could be useful, I wouldn’t be such a waste of space, such a useless blob drinking coffee on her sofa while others are out saving the world.
I’m never quite comfortable in my skin. I’m always doing too much or not enough. I’m always wishing I’d made better decisions or hiding beneath my covers for another half an hour.
But then there are those moments, those oh so brief moments, that come at us in a flash, that we wish we could bottle up and keep forever. They’re snapshots, tiny specks, minuscule moments of joy or happiness or contentment that we want to hold on to, but they’re like the wind, they just fly right through our fingers.
Just the other night, after a day of not getting enough done, after a day of too much screen time and not enough studying, after spending too much time on the internet and not enough time cleaning or exercising or somehow or other being more “productive,” Dan and I were invited by the boys to play with them.
They wanted to make a movie. So, we created this whole scene, videotaped it, turned the Swiffer duster into the boom mic, legos and race car tracks into props, and dramatically filmed the events. Of course, because they want to defy their peace-loving and pacifist parents, they decided to create a war scene, with empty gatorade bottles as the ammunition, and Jonah’s bedroom as the battlefield. We laughed and entered in to the game. We gave them our full attention, we played along. We filmed and shouted and giggled and lobbed a few bottles ourselves. And then it hit me: I was doing the exact right thing at the exact right time. I was where I was supposed to be, doing what I was supposed to be doing. It was a moment of peace and joy and contentment and fun.
It was brief. It was passing, but I took a moment to acknowledge it, to claim it, to hold on to it for as long as I could. I wanted to be present for it. For just a moment, I wasn’t in a surreal either/or of indecision and action, between a surge of energy and total exhaustion, I wasn’t over or under functioning, complacent or bouncing off the walls, I just was. It felt…right. I felt like I’d gotten something right, I was on the right track, I was doing what I was “supposed” to be doing.
Our reading today is one of those snapshots. In between the drama that has led up to this day, and the horrors that will come after, we have this moment of praise. We often put the two together, Palm-slash-Passion Sunday, and rightfully so, the one leads to the other, the one is the final step before the events of Jesus’s death unfold, before they tip over like a line of dominoes. The triumphal entry leads to the crucifixion, or at least puts the inevitable events on fast-forward. The crowd that is now crying out “Hosanna!" will change its mind. They’ll soon shout “crucify him!” They’ll deny him soon enough.
But not yet. For now, as much as they can, as much as they are able, as much as they can comprehend, they get it. They have this moment of clarity where they get it right. Or partially right. Or a little bit right. Or almost right. Or at least, not wrong.
They’ve been vacillating between “Jesus the messiah" and “Jesus the heretic,” they’ve watched him heal and preach, and they’ve been fed and taught. They’ve been shown resurrection, and they’ve asked and wondered and questioned and condemned and asked again, “Just who is this man from Nazareth?”
And they’re going to keep on asking, all the way up to his death, past his death. Who is this guy? Who is this guy who turns the tables and heals the sick and tells strange enigmatic stories about farmers and lost children and seeds and found coins? And so, for just half a second, for just a brief moment, while Pontius Pilate is riding his white horse into town with his troops and pomp and circumstance, the crowd gathers around the service gate from all over, shouting “Hosanna! Save us!” to Jesus, who rides in through the back door on a donkey. They spread out their coats like a red carpet. They tear limbs off of trees. They greet him and welcome him as their savior, king and messiah, they shout and cheer. They call out and praise.
For just a second, the crowd gets it right. They have their moment of peace and joy and contentment and hope. Their focus isn’t diverted. They aren’t distracted. They are of one mind. They have a break from the surreal indecision about what they should do during these trying times, and they have a moment of clarity, and in it, in that moment, they get it right. Jesus is the Messiah. Jesus is the one who will rescue and restore Jerusalem, he is the one to redeem the people, the king, coming to bring peace and justice to the land. They name him the best they can. They get it right. Or at least mostly right. Or maybe a little bit right. Or at least, not wrong. And I want us to take a moment, take a snapshot of this moment, and see it and acknowledge it and live it and embrace it.
At this moment, full of hope and confidence and assurance, the crowd understands Jesus, at least a little bit, and they praise him like he deserves.
Jesus is who they say he is, and for once, the crowd gets it - at least, a little bit — but he ends up rescuing and redeeming in ways no one is expecting. Even though Jesus tells them himself, even though he predicts the events to come, they don’t believe it. But for now, in this moment, Jesus is everything they’ve been hoping and praying for. In this moment, they are surrounded by hope and peace and light.
And I wonder, what do the disciples think of all this? Do they think they’ve won? Do they think that Jesus just had that last part wrong, that part about suffering and dying? Did they breathe a sigh of relief that finally their Messiah has come to set things right? Are they relieved that the crowd is finally on their side?
And what does Jesus think? Does he just go along with all this palm branch waving and cloak laying? Does he shake his head and sigh, frustrated that they’ve got him all wrong? Or does he smile a peaceful smile, knowing and accepting what’s on the other side of this, knowing what’s inside those gates, knowing the suffering that is ahead for him?
Does he enjoy the moment when the crowd finally gets it, or gets part of it, or some of it? Does he take a snapshot of these people calling out to him, encouraging him, naming him as he truly is, the Messiah, the one who comes to take away the sins of the world? Does he take a moment and cherish it? Does he hold on to it? Does it give him strength to endure what is to come?
Most of the time, during this time of isolation and quarantine, we go about our days, sleeping too much or too little, folding the laundry or letting it collect in a pile at the end of our beds. We reheat the leftovers, watch the cable news, knit or garden or rearrange the couch cushions until it’s time to sleep again. We worry too much or not enough. We plan too much or too little. We flail around, never getting it quite right.
But there are moments that sneak up on us, moments that tear a rift in our daily confusing, distracted, unfocused lives and get us to take a breath and notice the good. They’re these hopeful moments when we feel like, for just a second, the world makes a little bit of sense, for just a second, we’re finally getting something right. These moments are fleeting. They’re short. But they are palm branch moments when we know we’re on to something. They are the moments, oh so brief, when we are filled with gratitude, when we know from whom our help comes, when we know to whom to turn for salvation. They are moments that we don’t entirely understand, we don’t know how or when they’re going to happen, but like the crowd, we get it right, just for a second.
We’re outside of the surreal. We’re in the real. And we honor it. We wave our palms and lay down our coats and call out to Jesus to help us, to save us, to comfort us in the midst of the hard stuff coming up on the horizon.
The crowd is going to mess this up. We know what is to come. Like Peter, they’re going to fail and deny Jesus and they will call for his crucifixion. They are going to screw this up. Things are going to go from bad to worse. But not today. Today, they are going to welcome the King with all the pomp and fanfare they can muster, they will honor him with everything they have, they will lay what they have before his feet, they will call out to him in praise. Today, they’re going to get it right.
Let’s take a minute, just a minute, to acknowledge that we’ve gotten it right. At least once in our lives, we got it right. We found the balance. We figured it out. We had joy or peace or contentment or the right answer or even the right question. It won’t last forever, but it’s enough for now. Let’s pay attention, let’s acknowledge, let’s take a minute to appreciate it when we get it right, or partially right, or a little bit right, or almost right, even when we’re soon going to get it so wrong. Hosanna. Save Us. Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the LORD.
Thanks be to God.
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