HOSANNA
BLUES
March 24, 2002
TEXT: Matthew 21:1-11
It’s been an unusual Lenten season this year—not
the way it’s supposed to be. I remember when Lent was mud-time,
that transitional period when we moved from winter to spring,
when melting snow sogged the moist earth and prepared it for
growing. We stifled our alleluias and suppressed our joy as we
wallowed in our guilt and reflected on the suffering of Jesus.
Lent was the shadow season between darkness and the light, a
season of sacrifice and despair.
As a child I always knew when Lent arrived. It wasn’t through
the proclamation of the church. It was when the Rivoli Theater
stopped showing cowboy movies and started showing Cecil B. DeMille’s
silent movie King of Kings. It was an annual ritual, but the
images were so powerful that even though we had seen the same
scenes over and over again, some people cried during the Crucifixion
scene. One did not have to hear the sound of the nails being
driven into flesh, but you felt it just the same. Lent was not
Lent unless you somehow participated in the pain and suffering
of Jesus, whether vicariously through cinema, or the graphic
sermons from humorless preachers, or for us children, by not
having dessert after meals or some other form of sacrifice imposed
by parents and grandparents. Lent was depressing. We couldn’t
wait for Easter.
Palm Sunday never quite fit into the story. The rhythm was all
off. We have been moving throughout this forty-day period to
the inevitable tragedy of Good Friday. Why, all of a sudden this
parade? Why this celebration? Why these joyful shouts and standing
ovations for one who is about to be killed? It doesn’t
make sense. It’s almost like the Norwegian vardoger, the
false-arrival ghost. It’s a mysterious supernatural occurrence
where you hear the sound of arriving guests and actually feel
their presence several minutes or even hours before they really
appear. Palm Sunday is a false Easter that moves us to celebrate
prematurely.
The one person in the palm-waving crowd of celebrants who is
not in a joyful mood is the object of all the rejoicing. Jesus
knows what is about to happen and grieves over the city. He says
later in Matthew’s gospel, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent
to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together
as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not
willing!” Jesus knows that their hosannas are lies. Underlying
the songs of praise and jubilation were the chords of pain and
inner turmoil.
Last night was Blues Night at the Lincoln Plaza Hotel. We have
a bit of a blues festival within the Berks Jazz Fest. Ann Rabson
and Shemekia Copeland are two of the great women blues singers
in the tradition of Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey. We can talk about
suffering in psychological terms and in theological abstractions,
but blues is sung from the experience of life. In the music of
the blues we hear from those who have known the depths of sufferings
and have confronted the evil demons that have tortured them.
Blues had its origin in the early traditions and music of African
Americans. It originated in the rural Mississippi Delta region
at the beginning of the 20th century and had descended from earlier
work shouts and field-hollers. Blues is primarily a vocal narrative
style featuring solo voice with instrumental accompaniment. Blues
has contributed significantly to the development of jazz, rock
music, and country and western music.
It is important to understand that Blues came out of the experience
of slavery as a resistence to the culture of the white man, unlike
the spiritual and gospel music which was an appropriation of
white religion. One might say that blues are secular spirituals
that do not seek so much to provide answers to human suffering
as much as to express the experience of it.
James Baldwin wrote a play, Blues for Mister Charlie, which is
based on the murder of Emmitt Till, a black youth, in Mississippi
in 1955. The murderer, a white man, was acquitted by a white
jury. Baldwin makes the point that this society of white Christians
can kill black people and justify it terms of their religion.
The play takes places in a location with the metaphorical name
of Plaguetown. The plague is not only racial hatred, but also
our concept of Christianity—not Christianity itself, but
how we interpret it and how we use it. Mister Charlie is the
black man’s name for his white oppressor. Baldwin’s
play sings the blues for the white man’s moral crisis as
much as for the black man’s frustration and agony.
Baldwin raises an interesting and tough question: Should a religion
be judged on its teachings and principles or on the basis of
those who practice it? For two hundred years in the South it
is white Christians who enslave, who subvert and repress, who
terrorize and murder, and who believe that they are worthy practitioners
of the Christian faith. From our perspective, we would say that
expression was an aberration of Christianity, not an example
of it.
Yet at the same time, we are willing to demonize the religion
of Islam because of how a relatively few of its adherents interpret
it. We need to be just as careful to differentiate between the
religion of Islam and the practice of Islam by some of its followers.
What do the blues have to say about the problem of evil and suffering
in the world? Viktor Frankl tried to tell us that if we could
understand the reason for suffering, we can somehow endure it.
Sometimes, however, understanding does not mitigate pain and
the only way out of the suffering is through it. Singing the
blues was a strategy of expressing inner turmoil and pain and
therefore moving through it. Blues are techniques of survival
and expressions of courage. Just as we cannot move from Palm
Sunday to Easter without going through Good Friday, we cannot
go through life without pain and suffering. What we experience
shapes who we are.
It is natural for us to want to avoid unpleasant experiences,
bad relationships, financial and economic hardships, inconveniences
and adversities, sickness, pain, and loss of persons and things
we love, cherish, and value. But that’s not what life is
about. Sometimes we are fortunate to have a bridge over troubled
waters and sometimes we just have to wade through it. The ashes
of Ground Zero still shroud our hopes and dreams for a bright
and secure future. Those who work amidst the debris and those
that live amidst the charred cinders of shattered lives are still
moving through deep waters. But they will emerge—and so
will we. Grace has brought us safe thus far, and grace will lead
us home.
Albert Murray says that Blues is “an attitude of affirmation
in the face of difficulty, of improvisation in the face of challenge.
It means that you acknowledge that life is a low-down dirty shame,
yet confront that fact with perseverance, with humor, and above
all, with elegance.”
Blues is a celebration of the human condition in all its flawed
beauty and magnificent ugliness. It embraces contradiction as
the essence and spice of life.
Jesus saw the contradiction of celebration on that first Palm
Sunday. He heard in the Hosanna Blues the pained cries of all
creation. Like a woman groaning in travail at the moment of giving
birth, so Creation longs to be redeemed from its suffering. Just
as blues lead to transformation, suffering leads to new birth
and adversity opens up new challenges and opportunities. Palm
Sunday does eventually give way to Easter and to the resurrection
of new life. Let the hosanna come forth from the crucible of
despair and let it express our hope for a better world and a
better life. Let us remember the words of Dante at the end of
the Inferno: “And so we emerged, and once again beheld
the stars.”
-Harry L. Serio
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