DATE: April 13, 2014 — Palm Sunday
SCRIPTURE:
Matthew 21: 1-11
Rev. Alison J. Buttrick Patton
It was a grand parade, worthy of headline news: barefoot children laughing and running along the crowded, dusty route; people cheering madly, and straining to catch a glimpse of the man that rode through their midst; reporters recording events on sheaves of papyrus: Local Hero Makes Good. Homecoming Day For Miracle-Working Jew.
No matter, that the main attraction was a carpenter-turned-itinerant-teacher, an average-looking guy dressed in coarse robes, riding – not an elegant steed but a mother donkey with her nursing colt.1 No matter that the ‘red carpet’ being laid down for him was made of branches stripped from nearby trees and coats stripped from backs. No matter that nothing on that parade route actually glittered or gleamed: no polished armor, no banners unfurled, no trumpet blasts or rhythmic drums. Nothing – except several thousand pairs of eyes, all shining with expectation and glee.
The throng of people who lined the road that day was in a festive mood, captivated by this man Jesus. Their devotion transformed a motley crowd of peasants into a grand assembly fit to welcome a king. With all the exuberance of a crowd anticipating victory, they gave glory to the man who was about to change everything. They just knew it.
He’d already done so much. The crowd was full of people whose lives had been utterly transformed by this unassuming man: people like Lazarus, raised from the dead, called out of his tomb into new life just days before; people like the man born blind, whose sight had been restored after Jesus saw him, spit on the ground and spread mud on his eyes; people like the Samaritan woman, to whom Jesus had promised living water…
Surely, Lazarus and his sisters Mary and Martha were somewhere in that crowd.
Surely, the coat of that man born blind was among the garments that lined that road to Jerusalem.
Surely, the Samaritan woman shouted “Hosanna!” – “Save us!” – with as much passion as anyone on the parade route that day.
They’d all seen what was possible. They knew that Jesus could change everything. And the people desperately needed things to change. They lived, all of them, under Roman occupation, suffered, all of them, at the hands of an oppressive empire that favored the rich and exploited … everyone else.
In fact: even as Jesus and his band of admirers entered Jerusalem by the East gate (accompanied by a chorus of, ‘Hosanna to the son of David!’), Pilate, Rome-appointed governor of Jerusalem, was entering the city by the West gate. Unlike Jesus, Pilate did have an army, a full complement of well-armored Roman soldiers, come to keep an eye on the masses of pilgrims that had converged on Jerusalem for the Passover festival. It was during Passover that Jews remembered how God had liberated them from slavery in Egypt…and that made the Roman Empire nervous…Pilate would have had his own red carpet, a powerful steed and armor that gleamed. Pilate served an emperor who called himself the Son of God.2
Suddenly, that parade starts to look less like a party and more like a public demonstration, lead-up to a clash of cultures with very high stakes.
Indeed, that Palm Sunday procession (which probably took place on a Monday), may have been less like the homecoming parade for the UCONN women’s and men’s basketball teams, and more like a cross between the March on Selma and an historic election night celebration, charged with hope and sky-high expectations. That day on the winding road to Jerusalem, the crowds believed they were escorting the next conquering ruler into the city, believed, despite physical evidence to the contrary, that Jesus would somehow overturn the Roman Empire, liberate the people and usher in a new era of peace and prosperity.
Except that’s not what happened after the parade. Spoiler alert: Jesus didn’t defeat the Roman Empire, or even Pilate. Not in any obvious, strike-him-down and win the spoils kind of way. Instead, he was arrested. The festive mood turned sour, adoring fans turned into an angry mob and it all ended badly. From the perspective of Good Friday, Monday’s parade looks more like a farce than a victory march.
How quickly our hopes are dashed; how easily we become disappointed when our heroes fail to achieve a swift and sweeping impact. How little patience we can have for the real work that always precedes change: the hard labor and the losses without which nothing ever shifts. After the parade, Jesus refused to play by Pilot’s rules. To meet violence with violence. To have done so would have been to maintain the status quo, to participate in the very tyranny he had come to undo. Instead, he chose the route of peaceful resistance. “Your kingdom is not my kingdom,” Jesus said. So Pilot – and the crowds – condemned him.
Turns out, the glam and glory of a parade can obscure a harder truth: That nothing new can be born without something dying first: A way of life, old habits and attitudes, or a man on a cross. Jesus knew this, said it again and again during his journey toward Jerusalem. “Those who lose their life for my sake will find it.” (Matthew 10, 16). And way back during his encounter with the Pharisee, Nicodemus: “You must be born anew,” he said. Nicodemus scoffed: “How can I get inside my mother’s womb and be born a second time?” And of course, that’s what we do, right? In the face of profound discomfort, to hide our fear: we scoff, or joke, or change the subject. Only, we all know in our gut that it’s true. That change and loss are inextricably intertwined. Whether it’s leaving home or uniting in marriage; having a child or coming out; forgiving a grudge; getting sober; pursuing a dream; confronting injustice, or rebuilding a church…
All changes, even the good ones, involve some kind of death – of the way life used to be, or was going to be, or might have been; loss of freedom or routine, comfort or beloved custom, a certain identity or reputation. Real change – transformation – does not happen in a flash, as the trumpets blast and confetti settles at our feet. It takes time and it comes at a cost.
That’s the truth that began to sink in, after the parade. The last line of the gospel text reads, “All of Jerusalem was in turmoil.” Turmoil. It’s the same word used to describe the earthquake that is said to have accompanied Jesus’ death, when ‘the earth shook, the rocks were split and the curtain of the temple was torn in two.’ The turmoil in Jerusalem on Monday foreshadows the cosmic turmoil on Friday. And the shaking and the rumbling seem to echo the trembling in our own bones. “Please make it easy on us,” we cry, or mumble, or pray. “Please make the tough stuff go away.” No, Jesus says, as he slides off that donkey. No, he says, as he breaks the bread; no, he says, as he bends low to wash the disciples’ feet; no, he says, as he confronts the authorities, those who believed they could bend the future to their own desire. No. There is no way around the suffering, no way around this week we now call Holy. No way around the cross. Only through.
Which is why I am grateful for the parade. Because I’m thinking that maybe, when circumstances turn grim, it is the echo of exuberant voices, the residue of palm oil on our finger tips and the remembered bray of a baby donkey that help us to hold onto hope. Maybe, there is power in having been there at the start, in hearing the stories of those whose lives have already been transformed. In being able to say: “I was there; I got a glimpse of a world turned right side up: for just a moment, as we entered by the East gate – I got a good look at God’s future of love and grace in the face of a humble, holy Prince-of-Peace riding on a mule and surrounded by children.”
Perhaps it was the memory of that parade that gave Simon the Cyrene the strength to carry Jesus’ cross when the guards commanded it;
Perhaps it was the memory of that parade that gave Mary and the other women enough courage to remain at the foot of the cross until the bitter end;
Perhaps it was the memory of that parade that gave Joseph of Arimathea and that Pharisee Nicodemus the audacity to ask Pilot for permission to take the body, and the tenderness to wrap it in spices, myrrh and aloe before they lay it to rest in Joseph’s own tomb.
Perhaps, after all, the parade is not a farce. Perhaps it is there to sustain and inspire us, to remind us what this journey is all about, to focus and propel us into God’s future; when we would hold back, to give us the courage and clarity of vision to go all the way through.
Because just like those first century Jesus-followers, we are in need of change. There are still tyrants to confront and relationships to mend, there is justice to seek, and God’s beloved community to build, right here in our corner of Westport. This is not easy work. Today we may be waving our palms, but tomorrow, our resolve may falter. By Wednesday, we may forget what matters or deny we ever knew that man on the donkey. By Thursday, we may just want to run away and hide. By Friday, our bodies may tremble, and our hearts feel like they’ve been split in two. On Saturday, we may be overwhelmed by the silence – still as the grave, until we yearn for the joyful cacophony of last Monday’s parade, the glory days when Hope danced barefoot along the dusty road to Jerusalem and the future was ripe with possibility, rather than buried in the cold ground. O, those were the days.
Here’s the thing: we can remember, but we can’t go back. So at some point, the memory of colorful coats and glad hosannas no longer serves us. Sooner or later, we have to release our grasp on the past, lest it keep us from welcoming what comes next. Sooner or later, we need to turn around, take a deep breath and face into the darkness. There is one who would call us forward. Who urges us to wait through the night. To be brave and patient. To lean into uncertainty. If it helps, hold someone’s hand. And keep breathing. As dawn approaches, train your eyes on the eastern sky. Then we’ll see: we’ll see just what the Son of God has in store for us after the parade. Amen.
Scripture Texts
Matthew 21:1–11
When they had come near Jerusalem and had reached Bethphage, at the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, saying to them, “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, just say this, ‘The Lord needs them.’ And he will send them immediately.” This took place to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophet, saying, “Tell the daughter of Zion, Look, your king is coming to you, humble, and mounted on a donkey, and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” The disciples went and did as Jesus had directed them; they brought the donkey and the colt, and put their cloaks on them, and he sat on them.
A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, “Who is this?” The crowds were saying, “This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.”