Homily: Palm Sunday of the Lord's Passion, Year B

Deacon Tony Cecil
Mar 25, 2018
5 min read

Deacon Tony Cecil

Homily—Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion, B Saint James Catholic Church, Elizabethtown, KY

It was a beautiful little red brick house, nestled back in the woods. Its perfectly cut grass, beautiful garden, and flowerbeds made it look like a post card. Its painted over cracks in the walls and creaks in the floor showed its age. It was a religious home, with a crucifix in every room, an old statue of the Blessed Mother with faded paint in the corner, and rosaries hanging off of the bedposts. And in the living room, in an old, dusty frame that hung crookedly on the wall, a print of a poem—a poem you probably know. It read:

One night, I dreamed that I was walking along the beach with the Lord. Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky. In each scene, I noticed footprints in the sand— sometimes there were two sets of footprints, but other times, only one.

This bothered me, because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I was suffering from anguish, sorrow, or defeat, I could only see one set of footprints.

So I said to the Lord: “You promised me, Lord, that if I followed you, you would walk with me always. But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life, there have only been one set of footprints in the sand. Why, when I needed you most, were you not there for me?”

The Lord replied, “The times when you have seen only one set of footprints are the times when I have carried you.”

As I child growing up in that house, I would read that over and over again.

I would close my eyes and imagine:

What was a beach like?

What would the sand feel like moving under my feet?

How would the waves of water crashing on the shore sound?

What would it be like to walk along that beach, look to my side, and see Jesus?

As I got older, I realized that in reality, life as a Christian meant going on that walk with Jesus—that our lives were a journey, walking beside him, moving forward with the hope of Heaven.

There would be days when the sky was clear, the sun was out, and the beauty of it all would be enough to take your breath away.

But, other times, it would be dark—with a fog so dense, that you could hardly see your own feet moving, let alone Jesus beside you. It could feel lonely—but eventually, in the loneliness and in the darkness, a hand reaches out to grab yours, and you know that you are not alone.

Then, there were the bad days—days when being overwhelmed by stress, loneliness, anxieties, maybe even boredom—and we couldn’t walk another step—it would be as if we were walking through a desert with no water in sight—we fall to our knees, unable to move anymore.

And then, that line at the end of the poem—The times when you have seen only one set of footprints are the times when I have carried you.

As Christians, we are used to this idea of a journey. But, nearly forty days ago now, our walk along the beach took a turn, and we began down a very focused path—a path of prayer, fasting, and giving.

We started out with the perfect Lenten penances in mind, and there were many bright and beautiful days.

But, of course, those weren’t all of the days.

There have been the days of dense fog, when the only way we were sustained was that hand reaching out for ours.

And then, there were the days when we felt as if we couldn’t go any further. The days when we broke promises—days when we fell into sin—days when we were simply overwhelmed by all that life throws at us.

And even then, as always, there was still one set of footprints—we were picked up when we had fallen.

Today, on this Palm Sunday, we’ve reached the home stretch of this path—but something here is different. It’s clear that this final leg of the journey is one where our focus changes, and to be honest, it’s a bit confusing.

At one moment, we are with the Lord entering Jerusalem to shouts of praise that the Messiah is here!

At the next, we see crowds demanding that a murderer be released, and that he be crucified.

We lay palm branches before him as he rides through the city, and in the blink of an eye, we pick up torches, shouting behind him as he makes his way to Calvary. It doesn’t seem to make any sense.

In the midst of the confusion, though, we turn around and look where we have been:

We see the times when he joined us in celebration—when others were raising their voices in shouts of praise at our accomplishments.

Right next to those moments, we see others where we failed, times when we were mocked, times when we were persecuted—the times we were at our lowest, and we see that he was still there, even if we couldn’t see him.

And now, on this final leg of the journey—we are given the chance to walk with Him, just as He has walked with us.

Today, the Lord is beginning a journey, and we know what is to come. We can see the cross menacingly awaiting on the hill ahead—we can hear Jesus shouting—My God, My God, why have you forsaken me! We can walk through the joy of his entrance to the city sensing the pain that is to come—including the pain of hearing that one of us would betray him, and saying, Surely it is not I, Lord.

Some would say, “well, Jesus is God—he doesn’t really need us to walk with him,” and they’d be right. This week, though, we aren’t given the chance to journey with Jesus for His sake—but for ours.

This week, the Church gives us an opportunity to experience something marvelous—to see the unfolding of a story that we already know but experience new yet again:

To see Jesus exalted and praised,

To see Jesus give the gift of Himself forever at the Eucharist,

To see Jesus stretched out on the Cross and die,

And to see Him conquer death in His Resurrection.

We see from that little brick house, nestled in the woods, to a beach of twists and turns, to the city of Jerusalem—to here, today, in Elizabethtown, and we discover that it is in this walk with Jesus that we uncover who we really are.

We’re someone worth walking with. We’re someone worth reaching out to hold on to. We’re someone worth picking up when we’ve fallen.

And today, beginning this final leg of the journey, we’re given the chance to understand who we are in the fullest sense: someone who is loved… …so much that we’re worth dying for.