A Homily for Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion
Readings: Matthew 21:1-11 Isaiah 50:4-7 Philippians 2:6-11 Matthew 26:14—27:66
A critic used a word then newly coined to describe Alfred Tennyson’s poetry. It was “psychological,” taking us into untraversed territory, into our very thoughts.
An excellent example is Tennyson’s poem, “The Two Voices: Thoughts of Suicide.”
A still small voice spake unto me,
“Thou are so full of misery,
Were it not better not to be?”
St. Matthew’s Passion suggests a similar internal voice, one that insinuates itself into our story and therefore into the final agony of the Christ.
As St. Matthew sees it, Jesus must continually struggle against a death wish that has seized us. This is especially clear examining Passion passages exclusive to him.
All four Evangelists report a disciple striking the ear of the high priest’s servant with a sword. But only St. Matthew records Christ’s immortal response.
Put your sword back into its sheath,
for all who take the sword will perish by the sword.
Do you think that I cannot call upon my Father
and he will not provide me at this moment
with more than twelve legions of angels?
But then how would the Scriptures be fulfilled
which say that it must come to pass in this way? (26:52-54).
Matthew wants us to know that Christ was never bereft of power, yet he chose not to use it in the service of violence, of what might be called our “death instinct.”
Matthew alone records the Gospels’ only suicide, the death instinct turned against the self. Suicide is often a question of psychological disorder more than personal sin, but like all pathology, physical and psychological, it characterizes our lives as estranged from God, who is life itself.
Then Judas, his betrayer, seeing that Jesus had been condemned,
deeply regretted what he had done.
He returned the thirty pieces of silver
to the chief priests and elders, saying,
“I have sinned in betraying innocent blood.”
They said,
“What is that to us?
Look to it yourself.”
Flinging the money into the temple,
he departed and went off and hanged himself (27:3-5).
We struggle with the inflammatory words that St. Matthew puts on the lips of the crowd at the time of Christ’s trial.
When Pilate saw that he was not succeeding at all,
but that a riot was breaking out instead,
he took water and washed his hands in the sight of the crowd,
saying, “I am innocent of this man’s blood.
Look to it yourselves.”
And the whole people said in reply,
“His blood be upon us and upon our children” (27:24-25).
This response has been used for two millennia to malign the Chosen People, although Matthew’s Gospel was composed for a Jewish Christian community. And, as St. John Chrysostom insisted, Christ did not hold this against his people. No, our Lord
counted them worthy of good things beyond number. Think of who might have been among them. Even Paul perhaps. Even some among the thousands that believed in Jerusalem… (The Gospel of Matthew, Homily 86.2).
But in the context of Matthew’s Passion, the response of the incited crowd is one more illustration of the death instinct that Christ has come to confront, a malignancy that has haunted mankind since the fall.
A still small voice spake unto me,
“Thou are so full of misery,
Were it not better not to be?”
Peter seeks to slay his enemy; Judas kills himself; the crowd crows for Christ’s death. War, suicide, prejudicial judgment: They all confront Christ. Whatever the sin that lies within each, all are a symptom of a slavery to sin that we endure.
We think of sin as something we choose, an instrument, an extension of ourselves. The truth is that sin seizes us. It is we who are caught in its vortex.
But Christ is a champion of peace. He does not respond in kind. Describing our Lord’s entry into the chosen city, Matthew alone quotes the Prophet Zechariah, who foretold what could be called the psychological character of Christ.
Say to daughter Zion,
“Behold, your king comes to you,
meek and riding on an ass,
and on a colt, the foal of a beast of burden” (Mt 21:5, Zech 9:9).
St. Matthew’s Passion might indeed bear the same name as Tennyson’s poem, “The Two Voices: Thoughts of Suicide.”
A still small voice spake unto me,
“Thou are so full of misery,
Were it not better not to be?”
In this passion, we hear a new sound, albeit one still small in the scope of world history. Indeed, Tennyson’s next stanza, his counterpoint, seems to be the very voice of Christ, the one who will not abandon us to our collective instinct for death.
Then to the still small voice I said:
“Let me not cast in endless shade
What is so wonderfully made.”
Sin begets sin; violence seeds violence; but it all ends—at least it begins to end—in the sinlessness of the suffering servant.
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