Palm Sunday, Year A
The Liturgy of the Palms
The Liturgy of the Word
If
the writer of today’s Gospel had been in my seminary Old Testament class, he
wouldn’t have placed poor Jesus astride two donkeys at once. Did you notice
that in Matthew’s Gospel—in the part that we read today before the blessing of
the palms--the disciples are painstakingly preparing two donkeys for Jesus to
ride into Jerusalem? They bring him a full-grown mama donkey as well as her
baby, her colt, and Jesus somehow has to lumber into Jerusalem with one leg on
each. Did anybody notice that?
Oh
Matthew! Didn’t anybody ever teach you that Hebrew poetry often puts phrases
next to each other in pairs? Pairs in which the second phrase often intensifies
the first phrase? It’s the Hebrew prophet Zechariah who first mentions these
donkeys. He’s describing the coming king of Israel in a prophetic poem. The intensifying
word pair—“a donkey/ a colt, the foal of a donkey” leads us from the idea of a
king who rides a regal camel or majestic horse, to a king who rides a donkey.
But not just a regular old donkey—oh no! This is a king who rides a colt! This
king rides a baby donkey of all things!
Children,
I bet you can draw a wonderful picture for us of Jesus entering the great city
of Jerusalem on a baby donkey. I’d love to see your picture after church. In my
mind, I keep imagining a young version of Winnie-the-Poo’s donkey friend Eeyore—head
lowered, pin-on tail between his legs. I can picture Jesus on the little
creature, both feet raised up high in the air to keep from dragging the ground.
I can hear the baby donkey braying loudly and mournfully for its mother,
announcing Jesus’ arrival in a most undignified fashion. I can see them stopping
and starting irregularly, as the donkey balks suddenly on a whim and then trots
forward so quickly that Jesus has to hold on with both hands to keep from
falling off.
A
triumphal entry into a city is supposed to be for a conquering warrior. It’s supposed
to be for the Roman governor in his horse and chariot, bedecked with weapons and
carrying the spoils of war. But Zechariah, in the verse that follows the one
that Matthew quotes for us, writes that this king on a baby donkey “will cut
off the chariot … and the warhorse from Jerusalem; and the battle-bow shall be
cut off, and he shall command peace to the nations.”
The
image of Roman-occupied Jerusalem waving palm branches and shouting, “Hosanna,
save us!” to a defenseless, peace-loving guy on a young donkey is totally
absurd. It’s an image that is crazily countercultural
for Roman times. Just imagine Angelina Jolie padding down the red carpet at our
fashion-worshipping Oscars in flip-flops and an old pair of mom-jeans. Imagine a
five-star general striding into a meeting at the fortress-like Pentagon while
he coos and rocks a sleeping baby in his arms. Imagine President Trump choosing
to move from the White House into Wayside Mission… Imagine almighty God, taking
the form of a slave, letting himself be captured and killed as a criminal on a
Roman cross.
We
might shrug off peculiar and out-of-character behavior on the part of our human
celebrities, but there comes a time, doesn’t there, when God’s strange, compassionate,
self-humbling behavior just doesn’t sit well with us anymore. Our children, new
to the story, cry out boldly, “Wait, Jesus isn’t going to let them kill him, is
he? Why does Jesus have to die? Why doesn’t God stop them?” We adults, we just
look grimly around the world until we can’t take it anymore. Maybe it’s the misery
in the Sudan that becomes too much for us. Or in Syria. Or maybe it’s American politics.
Or the opioid crisis. Or the damaged environment. Or cancer. Or the death of a
loved one. At some point we put down our palms and stop cheering. At some point
we want to yank Jesus off of that baby donkey and hand him a fast horse and a
big club. “Do something, God!” we cry. “We want lightning bolts. We want
justice. We want you to stand up for yourself. We want you to stand up for
those who suffer. We want you to stand up for us!” And we trade the humble
Jesus in for thirty pieces of silver. “Me? I’ve never met this weird Jesus-guy before,”
we mumble, as we turn away to look at pastel bunnies and chocolate eggs.
The
story, however, doesn’t stop when we give up or turn away. It keeps on growing,
just like the seed hidden in the dark earth that is preparing to spring up green.
The ridiculous Jesus becomes the triumphant Jesus. The hidden God blazes like
the sun. Weakness is proven to be true strength. Love vanquishes hatred every
time. God’s story keeps on plodding down the road, just like that little donkey,
one determined step at a time, bearing Jesus forward.
Who
is brave enough, and free enough, to ride with Jesus? To seek salvation from
the Lord who rides a baby donkey through Caesar’s streets?
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