Palm Sunday

Grace Episcopal Church

March 28, 2010

Two processions approached Jerusalem that week nearly two thousand years ago. The first is the one we re-enacted. In fact, we didn’t even re-enact the story that we heard in Luke. Luke doesn’t state that it was a triumphal entry. He doesn’t even say that Jesus entered Jerusalem. Nor does he mention of palm branches. Instead, he puts the event several miles outside the city.

According to Luke’s version, an obscure Galilean prophet on his way to Jerusalem staged some sort of demonstration with his followers outside of the city. How many people were there? Fifty? 100? A man riding on a donkey, hailed by people: “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” This was a claim of Davidic kingship. What did Jesus have in mind? What did his followers intend? Did they mean to stage an uprising? A revolution?

The second procession, even though it wasn’t recorded in history, was much bigger, much more impressive. This particular procession, in the year 30, wasn’t recorded, but we know of it from other years, other Passovers. The Roman governor came into Jerusalem with his troops, as he did every year at Passover, for one reason, to make sure that things would remain quiet. But it wasn’t simply a march into town by the local governor and some troops. When Rome came, it came projecting its imperial power and majesty. It came to demonstrate to one and all that Rome held all of the power and would keep the peace.

Jump forward to today. This morning we reenacted that first procession, waving palm branches and saying Hosanna! This morning, even though we didn’t have a donkey and someone playing Jesus (they loved doing things like that in the Middle Ages), we were the crowds welcoming Jesus into Jerusalem.

There’s a sort of schizophrenia about Palm Sunday. The mood shifts drastically from the time we begin the service. We begin in joy, celebration, waving palms and singing “All glory laud and honor.”

Then we settled into our pews to hear the reading of the Passion Gospel. We hear the drama of the last days and hours of Jesus’ life—his betrayal, trial, crucifixion and burial. The service that began in joy ends in sorrow.

But before we heard the story of Jesus’ arrest and crucifixion, we heard another reading, one of the most powerful texts in all of the New Testament: Paul wrote to the Philippians:

“Let the same mind be among you that was in Christ Jesus, who though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death, even death on the cross.”

Everything in our devotion, our hymnody, even our theology, drives us to see what happens in Holy Week, to see the crucifixion as all about us and our sins, about Jesus’ dying for our sins. The hymn we just sang, “Ah Holy Jesus, how have I offended?” is an excellent example of this tendency. It presents a conversation, really a set of questions that we humans ask Jesus as he suffers on the cross. We have put him there, the theology goes, he is suffering for and because of us, and all of that should intensify our sense of guilt, and the forgiveness we receive. We answer our own question in the second stanza of the hymn: “I crucified thee.” That’s a great part of why Holy Week is so powerful and evocative.

But the gospel writers may have had something else in mind. Certainly, Paul when he paints this image of Christ emptying himself, and being obedient, is not using it to emphasize our sinfulness and God’s forgiveness. Rather, he is using it to make a point: “Let this mind be among you…” In other words, this is how you should act; this is what you should do.

Two processions approached Jerusalem that week. One was led by an obscure Galilean rabbi, the other by a ruthless Roman official. At the end of the week, Jesus was brought into the presence of Pilate. He was all alone but Pilate was surrounded by all the trappings of Roman power and majesty. Jesus left Pilate’s presence, a condemned man. Pilate remained what he was. Rome and their surrogates in Jerusalem, everyone who had a stake in the preservation of Roman power, saw to it that Jesus was executed like so many others who challenged Rome. The imperial records of Rome record nothing of the events told about in the passion narratives of the gospels. What happened in Jerusalem that week was so insignificant that the empire didn’t even notice.

But to read the passion narrative in this way, faithful to the text of the gospels, is to interpret Jesus’ life and death as the outcome of a confrontation with power. In all that he did and said, Jesus taught love. He was love—incarnate. He offered his listeners an alternative to a world in which those who have get more, where they dominate over the poor, the weak, the powerless. He offered a different way of being in the world, a very different kind of kingdom. He humbled himself, taking on our form, and became obedient, even to death on the cross. The kingdom he proclaimed was symbolized by the donkey on which he rode. Yet in the end, his way was thwarted, at least for a moment, by the powers that be.

Where do we stand? Are we in that procession, that little band of disciples who walked with Jesus from Galilee, who heard him say, “If you would be my disciple, take up your cross and follow me?” Are we in the smaller procession, those women who followed Jesus from Galilee and continued on to the very end. Luke tells us they watched from afar while Jesus was crucified? Are we members of that little group of women who had come with him from Galilee and stayed for the very end?

Or are we in that other procession, among those who marched in our weapons at hand, to display Rome’s awesome power? Or perhaps would we be among those who sought Jesus’ death, because he threatened to upset the status quo, our comfortable life and our power? To ask these questions is to penetrate the heart, the power, and the meaning of the passion story. And if these questions unsettle us—all the better.