Into Jerusalem
March 11, 2016
Written by Kathryn Matthews
Sunday, March 20
Sixth Sunday in Lent (Palm/Passion Sunday)
Focus Theme
Into Jerusalem
Weekly Prayer
Compassionate God, your love finds full expression in the gift of Jesus Christ
your Son, who willingly met betrayal and death to set us free from sin. Give us
courage to
live obediently in these days until we greet the glory of our risen Savior.
Amen.
Focus Scripture
Luke 19:28-40
After he had said this, he
went on ahead, going up to Jerusalem. When he had come near Bethphage and
Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples,
saying, "Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will
find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here.
If anyone asks you, 'Why are you untying it?' just say this, 'The Lord needs
it.'" So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. As
they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, "Why are you untying
the colt?" They said, "The Lord needs it." Then they brought it
to Jesus; and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it. As
he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road. As he was now
approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the
disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of
power that they had seen, saying, "Blessed is the king who comes in the
name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!" Some
of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, "Teacher, order your disciples
to stop." He answered, "I tell you, if these were silent, the stones
would shout out."
All Readings For
This Sunday
Liturgy of the Palms
Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29
Luke 19:28-40
Liturgy of the Passion
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Psalm 31:9-16
Philippians 2:5-11
Luke 22:14-23:56
Focus Questions
1. Why do you think the
disciples were singing that day as Jesus entered Jerusalem?
2. What do you dare to hope
for in your life and the life of the wider community?
3. What does it mean to "keep the peace"? What is the role of
religious leaders in "keeping the peace'?
4. How do you respond to
Frank McCourt's story from his visit to Dachau?
5. What are the risks of
being a Christian today?
Reflection by
Kate Matthews
Perhaps today should be
called "Cloak Sunday" instead of "Palm Sunday," because
Luke's account of Jesus' entry into Jerusalem has no palms, and no hosannas
either, two of the most familiar details of this story in the other three
Gospels. It's kind of hard to imagine Palm Sunday without them. The cloaks are
there, laid out to make his ride easier, as in the other accounts, and there's
singing, too - praises being sung, but not by a fickle crowd that will change
its mind in a few days and call for Jesus' death. Instead, these voices come
from Jesus' own disciples, a whole multitude of them, who have been following
him throughout his ministry. They may run and hide when things get rough in a
few days, but they never call for Jesus' crucifixion.
These are, after all, people
who have seen such great things, who have been so profoundly moved by Jesus'
words and his deeds of power that they can't help but sing out today, as Jesus
enters triumphantly into their holy city, Jerusalem: Jesus, the hope of a
people who long for deliverance from the powers that be, the forces that crush
them, that hold them down. Luke says they echo the words of the prophet
Zechariah long ago as they proclaim Jesus the king who comes in the name of the
Lord, and they sing of peace in heaven, as Sharon Ringe notes, here at the end
of Jesus' life, just as the angels in heaven sang of peace on earth at its
beginning.
Triumphant joy or
ominous peace?
Perhaps it's difficult for
us to connect with what's happening in this scene, even though we're familiar
with the story. Think of the occasional parade welcoming a championship sports
team back to their home city (in Cleveland, this is so occasional that our
imaginations are challenged); nowadays this is about the only time we can
picture ourselves in a crowd eagerly watching the entry of someone who sparks
such celebration. We've all seen old photographs from a time when ticker-tape
parades were given in New York City for triumphant heroes of one kind of
another. Can you imagine feeling so much hope and joy at the entrance into your
city or town of someone who represents not a political, military or sports
victory, but the coming of peace itself?
As it happens, if you were
listening to this story almost two thousand years ago, when it was written, and
of course you lived somewhere in the eastern Mediterranean ancient world, you
would hear something more. It would sound familiar to you, very much like the
ominous entrance into your city of a military conqueror, escorted by his
troops.
In their wonderful book, The
Last Week, Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan begin their account of Jesus'
last seven days with a colorful description of this procession by the King of
Peace into one end of Jerusalem at the same time that the Roman Empire's
representative, Pontius Pilate, full of brute power, enters at the other end.
Picture this: Pilate has arrived to "keep the peace" in the city
during the turbulent time of Passover, when the crowds always get a little
unruly. He travels with troops and flags and weapons, all the signs of empire,
very impressive, of course. And he rides in on a magnificent warhorse, in case
the flags and weapons and troops aren't a sufficiently intimidating display of
power.
A warhorse, or a donkey?
On the other hand, Jesus -
filled with a different kind of power - makes his entrance riding a humble
donkey, surrounded by his somewhat ragged group of followers, and we know that
he doesn't "keep" the same kind of peace Pilate and Rome intend to
"impose," a business-as-usual kind of peace that benefits the empire
and the folks on top. No, Jesus brings instead the peace that surpasses
understanding, and much of what is about to unfold in the next few days will be
the price he pays to bring it.
His disciples, of course,
have seen things that have changed their lives forever and have raised their
hopes sky-high. Maybe they still aren't sure exactly what to hope for, when
their leader rides – of all things – a donkey, a humble work animal rather than
a grand warhorse. What sort of signal does that send, what sort of statement is
Jesus making? Of course, this particular donkey, like any animal suited for
sacred use, has never been ridden, and that should tell them something.
Something sacred is happening, right before their eyes. Yes, a common donkey
may not be the sort of animal one rides to war or in conquest, but this is no
triumphant warrior or conquering power coming into the holy city or into our
hearts. This is the King of True Peace.
These disciples are, as
usual, clueless. They don't know what's about to happen in the next few days;
today, they're just full of joy and expectation. (Evidently, they haven't been
listening any of the times that Jesus said he had to suffer and die but would
rise again.) But the Pharisees, like many religious leaders in all times, are
worried. They seem to have better instincts than most folks about these things,
and they can sense trouble brewing. They know about Pilate coming in the other
gate of the city, and they're not ignorant of what can happen if Rome feels
threatened even by a ragtag group of religious enthusiasts. Rome steps on
people, brutally, and puts them in their place. So the Pharisees fret:
"Teacher," they say, "tell your followers to hush. They're going
to bring down the heel of Rome on all our throats. Don't be causing trouble
now."
All creation wants to
sing out
Jesus tells them that it's
no use and reminds them – and us – that, despite our best calculations and
precautions, all creation longs to participate in the drama of salvation. Even
if you could get the disciples to quiet down, he says, the stones would shout
out the good news, or, as the wonderful preacher Fred Craddock puts it, just as
stars can guide, lions and lambs can rest together, and in a few days, the
earth can quake and the sun can go out at the worst moment of all. Ironically,
these worrywart Pharisees are the ones that now disappear from the story. This
is their last appearance, this word of fear their last word, in the Gospel of
Luke, before they step off the stage of the drama that is about to unfold.
The worst moment is still
ahead by several days, and this day is just one of joyful anticipation, at
least on the part of the disciples, if not Jesus himself. After the deeds of
power they've witnessed, why should they fear anything or anyone? Their faith
has been emboldened by what they've seen, as long as they can forget what
they've heard: Jesus' repeated predictions of his suffering and death. But
their faith has raised their hopes into dreams of something we can't quite
assume we know. Perhaps this entrance of Jesus evokes the kind of joy and
relief that we can only imagine, for example, when United Nations troops arrive
in a country torn apart by genocide, or when a convoy of trucks carries grain
to a starving people. But whatever their hopes, the song these disciples sing
comes from deep within them.
Making the decision to
follow Jesus past the celebration
This week's passage kicks
off, if you will, the holiest of weeks for Christians. There is no
"off-season" for being a follower of Jesus; it's an everyday thing,
week in and week out, 24/7. Not just Sunday, not just holy days and not just
when we're in church or when we're praying. Being a Christian is an every-day,
every moment, all-of-our-lives journey. Still, this week is Holy Week, which
comes at the end of Lent, a season of conversion, of turning around, of
re-orienting our lives toward God just in case we've slipped off course. It's
been a time for us, as individuals and as a community, to study and pray and
examine our lives, to look inward and to ask ourselves the difficult question
of whether we're ready and willing to follow Jesus not just today, in this glad
procession, but all the way to the cross.
The cross. Everything Jesus
has said and done leads up to the cross, all the healing, the teaching, the
calling of disciples, the fasting and praying, the driving out of demons and
the calming of waters, the multiplying of loaves and the blessing and breaking
of bread, the time in the wilderness and the time on the road, the words to his
disciples and the arguments with the powerful, all of his life, has come to
this, the facing of death on a cross.
This death was the ultimate
gift, the "going all the way," as my friend who is in recovery once
told me, that Jesus was willing to go all the way, to pay the ultimate price to
show us how much he loves us. I believe that is what the death of Jesus is
about – the ultimate gift of love, the gift of a compassionate God who
anguished at the death of Jesus, who wept at the death of Jesus, not the
ultimate sacrifice required by an angry God, the only sacrifice that would
"satisfy" such a God. Rather, I believe God, who is compassion, God
who is love, grieved the death of Jesus so much that God said no to death
itself and raised Jesus up again on the third day, and this God will raise us
up one day, too.
Mis-reading the Bible
Alas, we Christians, we
followers of Jesus, have not done such an excellent job of "getting"
this message of compassion and love. Instead, for two thousand years, we've
often been part of the same kind of brute power systems that stepped on those
people of Jerusalem long ago. For centuries, once we got the upper hand, we
participated in a whole array of horrors, from the Inquisition to religious
wars, from witch-burnings to the repression of women and the selling of slaves,
from colonial empires to the killing of Jews…and we used a misreading of the
Bible in every case to justify what we did. And all of this time, the God of
compassion and love must have wept.
Perhaps it is most appropriate,
then, here on the edge of Holy Week, to reflect for a moment on the awful
history of events set in motion by a misreading of the events of Holy Week that
blamed the Jewish people for the death of Jesus. Just as we can carefully read
Luke's account and see that the palms and hosannas that we assume are there,
aren't actually there, a mis-reading of the New Testament distorts the story of
Jesus' death and blames the Jewish people instead of the powers-that-be, the
powers that be in every age and every place that wound the heart of God.
A mis-reading of the New
Testament ignores the fact that Jesus himself was a Jew, as were the Apostles
and his mother and our ancient ancestors in faith, Moses and Abraham and the
rest. When I think about the deepest suffering of the world, I think it is
something that most powerfully unites us, that ought to help us find common
ground, to recognize the humanity of each of our brothers and sisters, while
seeing the image of God in them, too.
Prayers that reach the
heart of God
One of my favorite writers
is Frank McCourt, who told the beautiful story of his young adulthood in his
book, 'Tis. I had read Angela's Ashes, the story of his heartbreakingly
difficult childhood growing up in a slum in Limerick, Ireland, when times were
tough and his father drank away the family's food money, and he and his mother
and brothers barely survived. A lot of this suffering was rooted in the
terrible injustices and cruelty of the British Empire against the Irish people,
about which we learn less in our history books than in the life story of Frank
McCourt.
As a young man, McCourt was
a soldier stationed in Europe not long after World War II. One day he was on
laundry assignment, an assignment that took him, of all places, to Dachau, one of
the most notorious concentration camps of the Nazis, which was now empty except
for where the laundry for nearby military camps was being done. One of the
other soldiers, Rappaport, was Jewish and, in great distress, refused to enter
the camp. McCourt went in, and as he looked at the ovens and thought of
"what went in there," he wondered if he should touch them, and
whether "it's proper to say a Catholic prayer in the presence of the
Jewish dead. If I were killed by the English would I mind if the likes of
Rappaport touched my tombstone and prayed in Hebrew? No, I wouldn't mind after
priests telling us that all prayers that are unselfish and not for ourselves
reach God's ears….I don't know if it's proper to say the Our Father touching
the door of an oven but it seems harmless enough and it's what I say hoping the
Jewish dead will understand my ignorance" ('Tis: A Memoir).
Better than any skillful
misreading of the Scriptures, Frank McCourt's clumsy but heartfelt theologizing
at the mass graves of innocents surely touches the heart of God. It draws us
back again, ironically, to why Jesus died, to be the face of a compassionate
God who lets nothing come between us and the love that holds us every day of
our lives, not just during Holy Week, not just when we're in church, not just
when we're praying or feeling particularly holy ourselves. This week, as we
stumble toward Jerusalem, we can rely on God's grace to carry us every step of
the way. On this Palm Sunday, though (with or without palms), in this one moment,
we can make a way for Jesus, we can throw our cloaks on the ground and sing our
songs of praise, and trust the unknown future to the God who works good in
every circumstance and in every holy week of our lives.
For further
reflection
Beverly Donofrio, 21st
century
"One day can change your life. One day can ruin your life. All life is is
three or four big days that change everything."
Plato, 4th century
b.c.e.
"The measure of a man is what he does with power."
John Steinbeck, 20th
century
"Power does not corrupt. Fear corrupts... perhaps the fear of a loss of
power."
Johann Wolfgang von
Goethe, 19th century
"The greatest thing in this world is not so much where we stand as in what
direction we are moving."
Kurt Vonnegut, Palm
Sunday: An Autobiographical Collage, 20th century
"Trust a crowd to look at the wrong end of a miracle every time."
Wilma Rudolph, 20th
century
"I ran and ran and ran every day, and I acquired this sense of
determination, this sense of spirit that I would never, never give up, no
matter what else happened."
Thomas a Kempis, 15th
century
"Great tranquility of heart is his who cares for neither praise nor
blame."
"Whenever you do a thing, act as if all the world were watching."
Mahatma Gandhi, 20th
century
"The day the power of love overrules the love of power, the world will
know peace."
and
"Whenever you are confronted with an opponent. Conquer him with
love."
Bill Watterson, Calvin
and Hobbes, 20th century
"How come we play war and not peace?"
"Too few role models."
Samuel Smiles, 19th
century
"An intense anticipation itself transforms possibility into reality; our
desires being often but precursors of the things which we are capable of
performing."
Norman Cousins, 20th
century
"Wisdom consists of the anticipation of consequences."
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