March 20, 2005 - Palm Sunday Matthew 21:1-11
Grand Entrance, Graceful Exit
Palm Sunday is a paradox, and it's always a little hard to know what to do with it. It's often celebrated as a kind of little Easter, or Pre-Easter, with its moment of triumph, as Jesus comes riding into Jerusalem, hailed as a conquering hero. It's a victory parade, prefiguring the much grander victory of next week's Easter parade. And yet, it is but a temporary victory, a momentary triumph, because the same crowds that shout "Hosanna!" on Sunday are shouting "Crucify!" on Friday. There are great depths that must be plumbed, immense agony that must be suffered, deep darkness that must be endured before the dawn of that Easter day, some seven days, and yet an eternity, away.
It's not to hard to know what to do with Easter. We expect trumpets and "Hallelujahs!", lilies and bright colors, and of course "the Mother of all sermons." It's easy to celebrate victory. But Palm Sunday -- it appears to be a victory, but really isn't, not yet. But if all we do is go from the "Hosanna!" of Palm Sunday to the "Hallelujah!" of Easter, without experiencing the poignancy of Maundy Thursday and the horror of Good Friday and the silence of Holy Saturday, then we have missed something very crucial; we've missed the crux of the matter. And we can't celebrate Easter in all its fullness.
Experience tells me that most of us will not be back here before next Sunday, even though the church will observe the events of Maundy Thursday in worship, and on Good Friday there are many services around the area. On Saturday, Melinda will be taking a group to an Easter Vigil. But only a small group. "Were you there when they crucified my Lord?" Like many other things these days, the job of standing at the cross has been outsourced! Don’t feel too bad -- even the disciples did that; rather than be there themselves, they sent the women.
Well, how do we get to that? How do we get from the grand entrance to the graceful exit, and be truly ready to celebrate Easter? Maybe one thing we can do today is simply tell the story.
It was in the spring of the year we now call A.D. 30 at the season of Passover, that Jesus deliberately "set his face to go to Jerusalem." He went there for the climax of his prophetic mission, to make a final appeal to his people at that place which was the center of their national and religious life, at Passover, when the city was filled with pilgrims.
At that time, the population of Jerusalem was somewhere between forty and seventy thousand. It was the most Jewish of cities in first-century Palestine, but was also occupied by a garrison of Roman troops, which were reinforced at the major festivals in order to cope with the throngs of Jewish pilgrims. And so at the season of Passover, more Roman troops arrived from the west in a procession led by the Roman governor, accompanied by all the trappings of imperial power.
Imagine the contrast as Jesus and his followers arrived from the east, possibly on the same day. As they entered the city, also in a procession, Jesus was riding not a war horse, but a donkey's colt. He was cheered by palm-waving followers and sympathizers, in contrast to the governor, who had few fans. Matthew explains the meaning of the act by referring to a passage from the prophet Zechariah which speaks of a king of peace riding on "a colt, the foal of an ass." In fact Matthew is so literal about this that he actually has Jesus riding on two animals, kind of like a circus performer. That has caused what is known as the “two-donkey” debate in scholarly circles. I think that’s being over-literal with biblical prophesy. (The other Gospels, understanding the poetic parallelism of Hebrew poetry are more realistic.) For me the more important question is, was this an intentionally provocative political demonstration about Jesus’ own messiahship, or was it simply his way of contrasting God’s domain with Roman Imperial Rule - saying that in God’s domain rulers are humble, do not lord it over others, and follow the way of peace?
In any case, the next day, Jesus performed a more obviously prophetic, provocative act. He entered the temple area, where angrily expelled the money changers and bird merchants. It was a inflammatory act that must have created a large stir, if not an uproar. And yet it was not intended as a takeover or an occupation of the temple courts -- otherwise the Roman garrison right outside would have intervened. Rather, it was a prophetic act, limited in scope and duration, done for the sake of the message it conveyed. "Is it not written: my house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations? But you have made it a den of robbers!" ("A place of violence," as one modern translation has it.)
According to the synoptic Gospels, it was this act that led the authorities to take action against him. Not because they saw it as an act of vandalism, but rather as an attack on their whole system of doing things. It is true that the moneychangers and the bird-sellers were crooks, that they gouged the pilgrims; but more than that they represented a system that said: if you want to get close to God, then you've got to be pure and holy. Your offerings -- the coins, the animals -- must also be pure. This led to things like the separation between rich and poor, Jew and Gentile, righteous and unrighteous. Jesus challenged this system, this way of ordering things. To him it was unloving and unjust, it favored the chosen few, the elite, and denied the image of God in all the rest. Thank heavens we’ve gotten over that – he said with tongue in cheek!
That's why he did what he did. And that's why the authorities began to make plans to eliminate him.
For the rest of the week, Jesus continued his mission. He taught in the temple courtyards. He debated the devout and the aristocratic, the Pharisees and the Sadducees. He spoke out against the wealthy, the experts in the law who "devoured widows' houses." He was the voice of an alternative way of being, calling the people back to God, challenging the status quo.
Then on Thursday evening, in the Upper Room, he ate what turned out to be a final meal with his followers -- the Passover meal, which not only looked back to celebrate Israel's release from Egyptian bondage, but also looked forward in anticipation of the inauguration of God's realm on earth -- a kind of subversive act in itself! And, according to the Gospels, Jesus spoke that night of his death, which by now he knew he could not avoid. Afterwards, in the night, they left the city and proceeded to the Garden of Gethsemane, to watch and wait, and there he was arrested, betrayed by one of his own.
According to the outline of the Gospels, Jesus was arrested by Jewish authorities and tried before a Jewish court, where the issue was blasphemy. Finding him guilty, they took him to the Roman governor, Pilate, to be tried for treason, who initially found no fault in him; however the Jewish leaders cajoled the reluctant Pilate into pronouncing the death sentence, while letting Barabas the murderer go free. Jesus was taken away to the place of execution, Golgotha, and beaten and stripped. In the morning, he was crucified between two members of the resistance movement on the Roman charge of treason. And then, as his disciples fled, and surrounded only by the women of his movement, he died a slow, agonizing death.
The most certain historical fact about Jesus is that he was killed. And it was not an easy death at all. Showing that, at least, is the contribution made by Mel Gibson’s film, THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST, now re-released with some of the more graphic images edited out. It was indescribable agony. And it was meant to be!
Now, our empty and artistic crosses make an important statement. Christ has overcome the cross. Rome did its best to destroy him; the powers of evil and death did their worst; but the power of God outwitted them. And yet, our crosses are not only empty, they are cleaned up; there's no blood or nail marks on them, the violence edited out. Which makes me wonder, is the cross empty because Christ has overcome it, or is it empty because it's still waiting to be used, waiting for you and me? "Take up your cross," he said! There is, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer reminds is, a cost of dicipleship.
Stanley Hauerwas tells a story about Clarence Jordan, who was was the founder of the Koinonia Farm near Americus, Georgia, over a half-century ago. It was set up to be an interracial community before anyone knew what civil rights were all about. Jordan himself was a pacifist as well as an integrationist and thus was not a popular figure in Georgia, even though he came from a prominent family. The Koinonia Farm, by its very nature, was controversial, a way of demonstrating what God’s domain might look like in this world. But, like Jesus, it was in trouble. In the early 50's Clarence approached his brother Robert Jordan (later a state senator and justice of the Georgia Supreme Court) to ask him to represent legally the Koinonia Farm. They were having trouble getting Liquid Propane gas delivered for heating during the winter even though it was against the law not to deliver gas. Clarence thought Robert could do much through a simple phone call. Robert, however, responded to his brother’s request, saying, “Clarence, I can’t do that. You know my political aspirations. Why, if I represented you, I might lose my job, my house, everything I’ve got.”
“We might lose everything, too, Bob,” replied Clarence.“It’s different for you,” said Bob.
“Why is it different?” asked Clarence. “I remember, it seems to me, that you and I joined the church on the same Sunday, as boys. I expect when we came forward the preacher asked me the same question he did you. He asked me, ‘Do you accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior?’ And I said, ‘Yes.’ What did you say?”
“I follow Jesus, Clarence, up to a point.”
“Could that point by any chance be — the cross?”
“That’s right. I follow him to the cross, but not on the cross. I’m not getting myself crucified.”
“Then I don’t believe you’re a disciple. You’re an admirer of Jesus, but not a disciple of his. I think you ought to go back to the church you belong to, and tell them you’re an admirer, not a disciple.”
“Well now, if everyone who felt like I do did that, we wouldn’t have a church, would we?”
“The question,” Clarence said, “is, ‘Do you have a church?’”
And that’s the question for us as well. Are we a church? Are we disciples, or merely admirers? And this week, the week we call “holy”, between the grand entrance and the graceful exit, is when we really get to answer. And when we do, we can come back and celebrate Easter in all its glory!
