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“None of us knows when the loveliest hour of our life is striking.” I have always loved this quote from The Reed of God by Caryll Houselander, a book we read at Madonna House most Advent seasons.
This quote came into my mind as I looked at the Mass readings for the Sundays of March, and settled on those of the last Sunday of the month, which this year is Palm Sunday and the beginning of Holy Week.
The Church in a very old and beautiful tradition has always paired the proclamation of the Lord’s entry into Jerusalem in triumph (“Hosanna!”) with the reading of what happened to him in Jerusalem only a few days later (“Crucify him!”).
The Church’s liturgy, in a very ancient custom, calls for a procession, with palm branches waving, beginning from some other location into the body of the church. This form of the liturgy may or may not happen in your parish.
Here in Madonna House we process from the dining room of St. Mary’s through just one room and into the main chapel where we have Sunday Mass.
The Palm Sunday procession is an unusual one in that the celebrating priest leads it. (In most processions, the priests are at the end.) The symbolism here is that Jesus Christ himself is leading us into heaven, symbolized by the church, and it is a procession marked by singing, waving of branches, and much festive joy.
It is only upon entering the church (heaven) that we recall in sober reflection just how this Lord of ours opened those pearly gates for us, and at what price he did so.
All of this is the “word” for Palm Sunday, and I want to reflect a bit on those two seemingly contradictory words that characterize this Sunday: “Hosanna!” and “Crucify Him!”
This is the moment of glory and the moment of anguish, the cry of triumph and the cry of betrayal and condemnation. Yet it is all part of the same mystery, which is the mystery of salvation and sacrificial love.
And that is where my favorite Houselander quote comes into my mind: “None of us knows when the loveliest hour of our life is striking.”
The author then goes on to talk about a person working in a drab office, at a drab job, seemingly living a life of meaningless trivial toil. And yet that person is the only one there who is Christian, and thus the only one who bears Christ in her person.
So her time in that office, its drabness not withstanding, might be her loveliest “hour,” for during that time, she brings to a place and to people who had perhaps never had him there before, the presence of God himself.
The fact is that we do not know when our lives are glorious in triumph and when they are not.
We usually know when we are in anguish and sorrow (our flesh cries out in ways we cannot ignore or deny), but we have to bring the “word” of Palm Sunday to that suffering flesh.
We simply do not know in what way that moment of anguish, whatever its causes and immediate outcome may be, is truly a sharing in the sacrificial offering of Christ and is thus the loveliest hour of our life, the one most to be treasured.
Jesus’ anguish and the love that motivated it opened up heaven for the whole human race. His entry into that New Jerusalem began a procession of souls streaming heaven-ward that will not end until time itself ends and all things are brought to their final state.
You and I are not Jesus, but who is to say that our fidelity in our moment of cruciform anguish will not be that little moment of Christ’s presence in the world that will stir others—maybe just a small handful, maybe just one other person—to themselves join that great procession, palm branches waving?
We just don’t know and we can’t know, really. But we have to take our ignorance seriously.
Our world today offers only one possible answer to pain and anguish: eliminate it!
In my native country of Canada, we have decided in recent years that this “answer” extends to eliminating the life of the person who is suffering. And so euthanasia is now the law of the land.
(This article is not the forum for me to discuss this issue. The teaching of the Church on this matter is clear and beautiful.)
As evil and tragic as this euthanasia regime is in Canada and in some other countries, it is only the tip of the iceberg. The idol that rules over so much of our civilization is a very strange one, one never seen before in human history. It is the aspirin, the analgesic, the immediate, unquestioned, and absolute need to utterly and always remove any pain from our lives.
It is this idol, this “answer” that spells the end to any possibility of a lifelong commitment to a marriage or to a religious vocation. For there is no such commitment without pain, without seasons of anguish and sorrow.
And it is this idol that drives the relentless pursuit of wealth and power, pleasure and stimulation, drug and alcohol abuse, sexual license and a host of other tragedy-inducing sins and evils.
All of this is a very big problem besetting our world, much bigger than you or I can do much about. Except … well, what about you and me? What about the fact that none of us knows when the loveliest hour of our life is striking?
What about the fact that our personal anguish and sorrow may indeed coincide with our entry into glory and triumph?
What about the possibility that our own hour of sacrificial love and whatever pain and grief may accompany it may indeed be the very reason we were put on this earth, the reason we are living the life we are living?
What about the fact that our fidelity and surrender in that moment may indeed be that small hidden presence of Christ in us that brings another or perhaps many others to know him and be saved?
What about that? Do you believe it? Do I? Palm Sunday is almost upon us. Once again, it is time to cry out both “Hosanna!” and “Crucify him!”—time again to walk with Jesus through his own living out of the very reason he came—the “loveliest hour” of his life striking him with the blows of the Roman soldiers and the mockery of the crowds.
As we contemplate all these things and their radiant terminus at Easter, and as we contemplate our world which has either forgotten, rejected or (more often) never known any of these things, let us take it all very seriously, very much to heart.
Especially let us take great care about what we do with our pain—grief, loss, sorrow, betrayal, and physical and mental anguish in all its kinds.
We just don’t know what it’s all for, but we do know that Jesus Christ is with us, in us, for us, by our side in it all. He, and not the idol of a pain-free life, is the God we worship.
If we who are Christians daily bring our share of suffering to him, he will show us its place in our lives, and in the midst of it all, help us to show forth the face of Christ, risen and triumphant, to a world that so desperately needs to see that face.
