A Promise Renewed

A Reflection on the Gospel for March 28th, 2021:
Palm Sunday of the Lord's Passion

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Mark
15.1-39 (shorter)
(For the longer version, please see the print edition of Living with Christ.)

As soon as it was morning, the chief priests held a consultation with the elders and scribes and the whole council. They bound Jesus, led him away, and handed him over to Pilate. Pilate asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” He answered him, “You say so.” Then the chief priests accused him of many things. Pilate asked him again, “Have you no answer? See how many charges they bring against you.” But Jesus made no further reply, so that Pilate was amazed.

Now at the festival he used to release a prisoner for them, anyone for whom they asked. Now a man called Barabbas was in prison with the rebels who had committed murder during the insurrection. So the crowd came and began to ask Pilate to do for them according to his custom. Then he answered them, “Do you want me to release for you the King of the Jews?” For he realized that it was out of jealousy that the chief priests had handed him over.

But the chief priests stirred up the crowd to have him release Barabbas for them instead. Pilate spoke to them again, “Then what do you wish me to do with the man you call the King of the Jews?” They shouted back, “Crucify him!” Pilate asked them, “Why, what evil has he done?” But they shouted all the more, “Crucify him!” So Pilate, wishing to satisfy the crowd, released Barabbas for them; and after flogging Jesus, he handed him over to be crucified.

Then the soldiers led him into the courtyard of the palace (that is, the governor’s headquarters); and they called together the whole cohort. And they clothed him in a purple cloak; and after twisting some thorns into a crown, they put it on him. And they began saluting him, “Hail, King of the Jews!” They struck his head with a reed, spat upon him, and knelt down in homage to him. After mocking him, they stripped him of the purple cloak and put his own clothes on him. Then they led him out to crucify him.

They compelled a passer-by, who was coming in from the country, to carry his Cross; it was Simon of Cyrene, the father of Alexander and Rufus. Then they brought Jesus to the place called Golgotha (which means the Place of a Skull). And they offered him wine mixed with myrrh; but he did not take it. And they crucified him, and divided his clothes among them, casting lots to decide what each should take.

It was nine o’clock in the morning when they crucified him. The inscription of the charge against him read, “The King of the Jews.” And with him they crucified two bandits, one on his right and one on his left. Those who passed by derided him, shaking their heads and saying, “Aha! You would destroy the temple and build it in three days; save yourself, and come down from the Cross!” In the same way the chief priests, along with the scribes, were also mocking him among themselves and saying, “He saved others; he cannot save himself. Let the Christ, the King of Israel, come down from the Cross now, so that we may see and believe.” Those who were crucified with him also taunted him.

When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. At three o’clock Jesus cried out with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” When some of the bystanders heard it, they said, “Listen, he is calling for Elijah.” And someone ran, filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink, saying, “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down.” Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last.

And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. Now when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, “Truly this man was God’s Son!”

Pause. Pray.

And then read more...

I know it’s coming every year — the Passion and death of our Lord. Yet every year my heart is broken open again as I hear the truth of how much Jesus loves me. I am forced to look at my human frailty and sinfulness and am called to renew again my promise to do better because He died for me.
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This year, Mark’s gospel called me to pray it using the Ignatian method, and I was able to place myself in the gospel as one of The Twelve. I was there in the Upper Room as Jesus said one of us would betray Him, and I was one of the ones vehemently denying betrayal as I dipped bread into the bowl with Him.

Yet just the other day, I found myself with an opportunity to introduce someone to Him and I did not have the courage to do so because it was at work, and what would people think of me?

I was there when He asked me to stay awake as He prayed in the garden. But I fairly consistently rationalize not spending time in prayer because I’ve had a long day and I’m tired.

I was there as He prophesied to the chief priests, and despite knowing the truth, I have days that I am still skeptical without tangible proof of miracles.

I was Peter, warming myself by the fire and afraid to identify myself as His disciple, then was humiliated and angry with myself when I realized my ingratitude.

I was in the crowd when Pilate asked what we would have him do with Jesus. I allowed myself to bow to the peer pressure around me and through tears, heard myself join in saying, “Crucify him!”, despite having no answer when Pilate asked, “What evil has he done?”

I wanted to be Simon of Cyrene, helping Him to carry the cross, but I found myself hanging back, making myself small so I wouldn’t be compelled to assist.

I looked away as the nails were driven into His beautiful hands and feet — as the thorns cut into His head. I thought I would hear Him scream in pain, yet I heard nothing but the thud of the hammer.

I heard Him ask, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” and I questioned why God would allow something that was so seemingly wrong to happen.

I was there as He breathed His last. It was then that I realized what He had just done for me — an ungrateful sinner.

I joined the women who were looking on from a distance and felt my face damp with tears of regret… of sorrow… of compassion… of repentance. I joined the procession to the tomb, felt my hand on His still warm body, drenched with His precious blood.

And I wept as the stone was rolled in front of the tomb, sorrowful that I would never see Him again, yet also awash in gratitude for a gift that was so freely given, and can only be acknowledged by my total commitment to making every breath given to me worthy of His name.




Sandy Graves

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