When the Gospel is read on Passion Sunday, I don’t like hearing my own voice among the crowd shouting out “Crucify him, crucify him!”
I fantasize that I would have stood strong for him. And though it makes me squirm a bit, it’s good for me to play my part with the rest of them in the liturgical drama, to sing the Hosannas and wave the palms, and a short while later, cry out for Jesus to be crucified.
It’s a sober reminder of the truth, that Jesus died for my sins. He died for me and the crowd of baby boomers I was born into, and those who came before me, and my children and grandchildren with their crowds too.
On Passion Sunday I’m faced with the truth that I’m one of the crowd.Though I’d like to claim otherwise, I am an expert in detecting the slightest hypocrisy in others while blinded to the most glaring inconsistencies in myself.
Soon we will hear his prayer of loving intercession for us. “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”