Kingdom v. Empire

Palm Sunday, April 1, 2012

Mark 11:1-11

This is the week we call Holy, the week preceding Easter. The events of Holy Week commemorate the last week of Jesus' life. Today is Palm Sunday, which many consider a "little Easter," or as I used to think of it, "dress rehearsal" (because my sister and I would put on our Easter dresses and break-in our new shoes on Palm Sunday). Palm Sunday is the day that Jesus entered Jerusalem on a donkey colt, while crowds waved palm branches and shouted "Hosanna!"

If we ignore the events of the rest of the week, we might think that Jesus moved from a "little Easter," to a "big Easter," from dress rehearsal to the big production number, from glory to glory. But it wasn't like that at all. The events of Holy Week were the original "Arab Spring." The Palm Sunday procession itself mocked the triumphal procession of the Roman governor and his guard, through the opposite gate of Jerusalem. It was a dangerous political demonstration.

Crowds were pouring in to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover, which commemorates the foundational event for the nation of Israel. It declares that God heard the cries of the people when they were slaves in Egypt, that God led them out by a mighty hand, and gave them the land of Israel, a good and broad land, a land flowing with milk and honey.

Now remember the context of this particular Passover: Occupied Jerusalem. Jerusalem under the rule of the Caesar, a self-proclaimed Son of a god. A Jerusalem with a puppet king, selected, appointed, and protected by the powers that be in Rome.

Imagine celebrating Bastille Day in occupied Paris. Imagine celebrating the 4^th of July in occupied Washington, DC. This is the context of Jesus entry into Jerusalem.

It was a demonstration of the Kingdom of God v. the Empire of Rome. It was a proclamation that the Lord God is King of Israel, and that the only one worthy of the throne is the one who comes in the name of the Lord. “Hosanna” is the shout of praise from the coronation psalms of King David. The crowds were proclaiming a Jesus king.

But Jesus was modeling a very different kind of kingship. While the Roman Governor, Pontius Pilate, was riding in on a war horse, with his armed guard marching with him (O the sound of the trampling warriors!) making a show of force, Jesus was making a show of peace. Here comes your king. Humble and riding on a donkey. Not with force of armaments, not with sword and shield, but with a force of palm-branch waving peasants.

The next day, Jesus led a demonstration at the temple, a symbolic protest of the unholy alliance of market economics, the empire and religion. It is commonly known as the clearing of the temple.  It might have been called Occupy Jerusalem.

On Thursday, Jesus celebrated the Passover with his disciples. After supper, while he and his disciples prayed, Jesus was betrayed by one of his own; he was arrested, tortured, and summarily executed the next day, which is a day ironically called "Good Friday."

Jesus didn't move from the little glory of Palm Sunday to the greater glory of Easter. No, the week we call Holy was, for Jesus and his disciples, hellish. It was "that lonesome valley" of the old spiritual. But in that very experience of suffering, people of faith through the ages have found hope for salvation.

How can this be? I suppose it is because real life doesn’t move from glory to glory. When I was a child, there was a popular evangelist whose trademark truism was “Every day, in every way, it’s going to get better and better.” That may have sounded true in the suburbs. But, that must have rang hollow for people who were marching for the right to vote in Mississippi, or for people who were striking for decent working conditions in the farm fields of Texas and California, or for people who were watching children die in Viet Nam. No, for a lot of people Every day in every way life’s going to get better and better was just a bald-faced lie. These were people of the lonesome valley.

It may seem as if our nation has never been more divided, never more lost, never less hopeful. When I learned of the murder of Trayvon Martin, I couldn't help but think of the lynching of Emmett Till (1955) and wonder, "Have we learned nothing?" Emmett Till's murderers were tried and acquitted. Trayvon Martin’s killer has not been arrested. The powers that were in Mississippi in 1955 and the powers that be in Florida in 2012 both seem to believe that being in the wrong place at the wrong time is reason enough to kill a black man. Where is the justice for the bereaved mothers and fathers? Where is the mercy for Emmett and Trayvon?

Where was the justice in Jerusalem for Jesus?

In our United Church of Christ statement of faith, one of the most meaningful lines for me is “In Jesus Christ, the man of Nazareth, God has come to us, and shared our common lot.” That means there is nothing we experience that God has not experienced. God knows what it’s like to be despised because of his race; Jesus, the Galillean half-breed, was despised. God knows what it’s like to be beaten and tortured; Jesus was beaten and tortured. God knows what it’s like to cry for mercy and find none; Jesus cried out on the cross. And God knows what it’s like to be killed; Jesus was killed.

The suffering of Jesus sanctifies all suffering. Through the Jesus story, God takes human suffering and makes it holy. Through the Jesus story, the endurance of suffering becomes a spiritual virtue, which redeems our past, and gives us hope for the future. Because suffering was not the end of the story.

Maybe we are in that lonesome valley as a nation. But I must believe that this is one lonesome valley with a promise of glory at the end. Because that is the story of Jesus. That is the story of God in this world. It is a story of a little glory, and a lot of suffering, and in the end, a greater glory than we could ever ask or imagine. But that’s a story for next week.

I pray that good will come out of evil, that justice will prevail. I believe that we shall see the goodness of the Lord, and the goodness of God’s creation, in the land of the living. So be it. Amen.

The Last Week

Palm Sunday, 17 April 2011

                Palm Sunday is sometimes called the “little Easter.” This week we shout “Hosanna!” as if rehearsing for next week’s “Halleluiah!” But between that triumphal entry on one Sunday, and the resurrection the next, was a week in Jerusalem, Jesus’ last week. It was a descent into hell on earth for those who loved him, because they witnessed the betrayal and arrest, the torture and the execution of their beloved Jesus. He was someone’s son, and someone’s brother, and somebody’s friend, and somebody’s mentor.

                Most of us skip that part. We do, we skip the formal observances of Holy Week, because we are busy with other things and, frankly, because they are real downers. We are, culturally speaking, a people who prefer to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative. Palm Sunday and Easter feel good. Maundy Thursday and Good Friday feel bad. So, we skip it. Advance to Go, collect $200, avoid paying rent on Boardwalk. We can do that.

                The liturgy of Holy Week may not fit our optimistic Hollywood USA version of life, but the liturgy of Holy Week is actually more like real life than perhaps we care to admit. And I believe that reenacting the whole week, in the liturgy of the church, year after year, can strengthen our spiritual muscles for the suffering that is a natural part of life.

                There is so much pain and suffering. I know, because sharing the sorrow is part of my job. In addition to celebrating family weddings and baptisms, I have the privilege of sharing in the intimacies of disappointment, sickness, and grief. I’m not complaining—it is a big, full life. That’s why I call it a privilege, it is. By virtue of office, I get to be part of the family in all the big moments of life: joys and sorrows. And that is my point. Life is not just made up of a series of peak experiences. There are valleys. Sometimes they seem like bottomless chasms, but they inevitably level out and begin to rise again. That’s life. That’s what ages of experience has taught us. And every religious system in the world has some way of coming to terms with suffering-- in Christianity, it is the incarnation of God.

                In our United Church of Christ statement of faith, one of the most meaningful lines for me is “In Jesus Christ, the man of Nazareth, God has come to us, and shared our common lot.” That means there is nothing we experience that God has not experienced. God knows from experience our ecstasies and our agonies. God knows what it’s like to be a child and pick wildflowers for mom, because Jesus did that. God knows what it’s like to hit your thumb with a mallet, because Jesus probably did that too. God knows what it’s like when people tell you that you are their savior, because God experienced that through Jesus. And God knows what it’s like to be run out of town, because Jesus experienced that too.

                God knows intimately what it is to be betrayed by someone you loved. God knows what’s it’s like to be in prison, because Jesus was there. God knows what it’s like to be beaten, because Jesus was there. And God knows death.

                Why did Jesus die? Because he was fully human. Because that is the way life is. There is a beginning and an ending. That’s the way all our stories go.

                Some stories seem to end way too soon. Like Jesus’ story.

                But for me, the life of Jesus sanctifies my suffering. Through the Jesus story, God takes my suffering and makes it holy. Through the Jesus story, the endurance of suffering becomes a spiritual virtue, that shapes our future and redeems our past.

                Through the life, suffering and death, and resurrection of Jesus I know that suffering is not all there is, that there is always a resurrection, a rising up.

                May the remembrance of Christ’s suffering strengthen us all in faith and hope, that our hearts may rise up in joy. Amen.

Two Parades: Palm Sunday 2010

Two Parades: One down from the Mount of Olives, the other from the coast, bringing the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, and extra Roman legions into the city to “keep the peace” during the festival of Passover.
Passover, being a festival of liberation, was an occasion of special concern to the government of occupation. Religious pilgrims poured into the city, crowding the streets, filling the temple, overflowing into encampments around the city walls, for a feast that includes a re-telling of the burdens of slavery, a reminder that God hears the call of those who are oppressed, and a warning to any who would oppress God’s chosen people.
The festival of Passover made Rome nervous. It also made collaborators like Caiaphas and Herod nervous, because they were appointed by Rome and protected by Rome. So the troops marched in from the east, line after line, marching, marching, before and behind the Roman Governor Pontius Pilate, the local representative of Caesar Augustus, who was not only Emperor, but also, according to him and to the engraving on Roman coins, “son of God.” Pilate would have been carried on a litter, or a chariot, or mounted on a war horse, in this display of military might. This parade was meant to intimidate. It was a public display of power intended to quell any ideas of rebellion, that might be inspired by the festival of freedom that is Passover.
And down from the Mount of Olives, on the opposite side of the city, came a parody of Pilate. Not on a war horse or chariot, but on the colt of an ass. A grown man on a donkey’s colt… it must have been as ridiculous as a man on a tricycle. And this King, this Jesus, was not accompanied by men of war, but by a crowd of disciples, shouting praises for the "King who comes in the name of the Lord.” Beating swords against shields, the Roman soldier would have made a terrifying, thunderous din. In contrast, the disciples praised God for all they had seen in Jesus, and invoked the peace of heaven. Pilate came to enforce the so-called peace of Rome by military threat; Jesus came, announcing the peace of heaven, the peace of God, the fulfillment of all the hopes of the people.
There were two parades in Jerusalem, parades. One a show of force, a menacing warning. The other, a proclamation of peace. These parades were on a collision course. In the week that followed the power of Rome and the power of God met, and on the surface, it may appear that Rome was victorious. Their man, Pilate, walked away unharmed, God's man, Jesus, was crucified. But that, as you know, is not the end of the story. The Easter gospel proclaims that once Rome did it's worst, Christ rose again, and lives eternally.
But, Palm Sunday is an event that repeats itself, not only literally, chronically, but figuratively in our hearts and in our lives. Whenever we are faced with a choice between the peace of Rome and the peace of Christ we relive this day. Whether to accept our place in a culture of violence, or leave the violence behind us and take our place behind Jesus the Prince of Peace, and his donkey, that is the Palm Sunday of the soul. Let us contemplate, which parade we follow.