The Fickle Nature of Humanity

Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion
    [In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen].  Today’s Mass is an exhibit on the fickle nature of humanity.  It is an emotional roller coaster if ever there was one.  Even the usually pristine nature of the Mass takes on notes of higher and lower pitch. 

    We started today echoing the words of the people as Christ entered His city, Jerusalem, fulfilling the prophecy of Zechariah.  We, like the Jews at the time of Christ, waved our palm branches, signs of victory and jubilation.  Not long after, however, our cries of “Hosanna” changed to “Crucify him!”  We started with, “‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’” and we ended with, “‘His blood be upon us and upon our children.’”
    How did this happen?  Our Lord was cheered as a hero, as the fulfillment of the messianic prophecies that filled the minds of the pilgrims in Jerusalem.  He was welcomed and embraced as an honored guest in the Holy City.  But in those few short days between Palm Sunday and Good Friday, the mood changed.  The Messiah was not the type of Messiah the people wanted.  They grew tired of His preaching.  The newness wore off.  Until, whipped into a frenzy by agitators, this honored guest was not only brushed away and forgotten, but snuffed out, even while the crowds called for the release of a notorious prisoner, Barabbas, whose name, ironically, means “son of the father.” 
    It would be easy to think of this simply as a past event.  It would certainly ease our conscience if we didn’t have to take any part in the great drama of salvation, and could stand as critics who know how the scene should play out, because we observe like omniscient spectators, convinced of our own wisdom.  But to do so is to miss the point.  We did not live 2,000 years ago, but we still cry out “Hosanna” and “Crucify him” because we are the crowd.  We are the mob.  We are fickle.
    We see Christ do amazing things for us.  Perhaps we ourselves witness miracles that Christ does to ease our suffering or heal our illness.  Something goes right and we say, “Thank you, Jesus!”  We embrace Him with love because of the mercy He shows us.  But then, as times get tough; as we do not receive all that we desire; as we have to say no to our fallen sinful selves; as our love is tested by sacrifice, we embrace Him again, but this time we say, “‘Hail, Rabbi,’” and kiss Him with the kiss of the betrayer.  We make the words of Psalm 41 (40) about us, as the Lord says, “Thus even my friend, in whom I trusted, / who ate my bread, has turned against me.”  We, who have eaten the bread of angels, the Eucharist, betray Christ and cast Him out of our midst. 
    To be welcomed and celebrated and then cast off so quickly.  How would we respond?  How does Christ?  He feels the agony of rejection, of betrayal, by those whom He loved so dearly: “‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’” he cries out, quoting Psalm 22 (21).  And yet, He also says, “Father, forgive them.  They know not what they do.”  As Isaiah prophesied, “The Lord God is [His] help, therefore [he is] not disgraced.”  He is not ashamed to be called our Brother, even though we are ashamed, at times, to be called His. 
    We are fickle.  Our love fades so quickly.  Perhaps, though, today we silent our tongues, not cheering out in joy, nor howling in impious mockery.  But we simply watch, silently, as our Lord does what must be done for the salvation of the world [In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen].