Anger and Grief by The Rev. Dr. Tara W. Bulger

Matthew 21:12-17

Then Jesus entered the temple and drove out all who were selling and buying in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who sold doves. He said to them, “It is written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer’; but you are making it a den of robbers.” The blind and the lame came to him in the temple, and he cured them. But when the chief priests and the scribes saw the amazing things that he did, and heard the children crying out in the temple, “Hosanna to the Son of David,” they became angry and said to him, “Do you hear what these are saying?” Jesus said to them, “Yes; have you never read, ‘Out of the mouths of infants and nursing babies you have prepared praise for yourself’?” He left them, went out of the city to Bethany, and spent the night there.

I have a friend whose mom got very sick when he was 11. Cancer. She had treatment after treatment for the next two years, and the family cared for her as best they could, but she died when he was 13. If you were to ask him what he remembered about that time and the time just after her death—the years after, really, he would tell you that it was not sadness that he remembered, though he was undoubtedly sad. What he remembers is being angry. So, so angry. Angry at every little thing, angry in a way that completely outmatched the circumstances. Angry all the time.

Our story of Palm Sunday from Matthew’s gospel is the familiar story of the triumphal entry into Jerusalem. It’s the story we tend to remember—-there is a donkey, a colt, cloaks laid on the road, and the yell of Hosanna and waiving of palm branches as Jesus enters Jerusalem. This part of the Palm Sunday sermon seems full of hope. Maybe the crowds have finally realized who Jesus is and will follow him. Maybe this parade is actually good news.

But Matthew’s gospel tells us that Jesus enters the city, goes to the synagogue, and is enraged by what he finds there. Gone is Jesus riding on the humble colt, and in its place is a Jesus who is angry enough to overturn tables. He is angry at how his father’s house has become crowded with commerce and the sacrifice of animals and because no one is paying attention that all God wants is a sacrifice of our hearts. He heals the sick in the temple, but his anger is understood when the religious leaders have a problem even with that. Jesus is so angry, and we have to wonder why.

The answer is the same as my friend who lost his mother—-the anger is masking a lot of grief. My friend was so angry, but it covered a nearly debilitating grief. Grief that his mom had died, grief that his life was so significantly changed, grief that he had control of so little. Similarly, Jesus comes into Jerusalem knowing that he is fulfilling the prophecies of old and knowing what comes next—his betrayal by a friend, the last supper, the garden of Gethsemane, the arrest, the trial—-the same crowd who cried Hosanna crying out for Barabbas to be released and not Jesus—the passion and the crucifixion. Jesus is angry at the temple, but he is really grieving—grieving this broken world and all it will demand of him.

C.S. Lewis wrote, “I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief.” Jesus is angry, but he is really grieving. He is grieving this Holy Week and all that will happen.

The central question of this passage is found in verse 10, when the whole city—in turmoil, the text tells us—asks, Who is this? Jesus is so unlike anything they have ever seen. He comes riding into town on a donkey, not a steed. People waive humble palm branches in celebration. Who is this? And when he flips tables in the synagogue, I bet people wondered then. Who is this angry guy?

And the answer is that this is God grieving the sin of this world and willing to make a way forward for all of us despite his sin, even at the cost of his own life. That’s who Jesus is.

This kind of anger rooted in grief came to mind this week when I heard about the mass shooting in Nashville. Guns are now the number one killer of children in our country, and I am so angry that I can hardly stand it. I am angry because it is easier than the grief—-grief over our children having active shooter drills, grief over so many in our community who know those in that church community in Nashville that experienced the shooting, anger that it feels like our hands are tied by our electorate, and anger that the world is so dark and so broken at times. Jesus knows this pain and anger, and grief.

The church reformer Martin Luther said that he would have kicked the world to pieces if he were God. But Luther was not God, and instead, we have been given a Lord and Savior who takes his grief and anger to the cross. To the cross, where he will sacrifice himself to bring light and life into the world in a whole new way. God does not kick the world to pieces, though I feel at times that we certainly deserve it, but rather God gives of himself over and again, blesses this world over and again, and offers grace to the world over and again. That is the best news.

I have struggled all week with how to end this sermon. That’s the thing about anger and grief—it can keep you stuck. I have wondered whether I end with the hope we have in the Easter resurrection of Jesus, despite the darkness of the cross to come. Do I land heavy on the deaths of the children in Nashville, hoping against hope that one of you may know a way forward in our broken country, even though I do not? I’m still not sure. So I think the best I can do is to ask that you pay attention this week. Pay attention to this Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, and Good Friday as our Lord and Savior moves through this week. Pay attention, and let the Holy Spirit work in your hearts. This Holy Week, and forever more. Amen.