“Between Two Sundays”
A
Communion Meditation Preached by
The
Rev. Jean Niven Lenk
Palm/Passion
Sunday, April 1, 2012
First
Congregational Church of Stoughton, United Church of Christ
Text: Mark 11:1-11 and the Passion Narratives
Today the Christian Church observes
Palm Sunday. It is a day of celebration
and rejoicing, as we wave our palms and sing “Hosanna!” and hear again the
story of Jesus being welcomed into Jerusalem as a king.
Next Sunday, this sanctuary will
be filled with the fragrance of lilies as we celebrate Easter and Christ’s resurrection.
And between these two Sunday celebrations,
our lives will be filled with work and school, talking with friends, paying
bills, checking emails, rooting on our favorite NCAA team, laughing, loving,
living.
But as we go about our daily
lives this coming week, a story will be unfolding — a story of dark human
drama, of political intrigue, of kingdoms clashing, of ultimate despair. It is a story central to our faith, and as
Christians, we are compelled to pay attention.
On the first Palm Sunday, as he enters
the east gates of Jerusalem, Jesus is hailed as a king by people ready for a conquering hero.
They have suffered hundreds of years of oppression and are now ruled by
the Romans who have brought unfair taxes, brutal sentences, and quick, sure
retribution to any and all who dare defy them.
For half a millennium, they have kept an eye out for King
David’s successor to gallop into town on a stallion and assume the throne – a
new king who would be the one to
bring justice, righteousness, salvation and peace.
And so, when Jesus rides into Jerusalem on that first Palm
Sunday, he is received like a conquering king; people from all over line the
streets and cheer wildly; the crowds shout “Hosanna” which means “save us.” They want to believe that Jesus will destroy
their enemies and renew God’s children as a free, honored, and chosen people.
When
generals come for war, they come on horses.
But Jesus comes for peace, riding on a humble donkey. He comes not as a powerful, conquering hero
to bring revolution to the political, economic and social structures of the
day. Instead, he comes as God’s son, to
break the power structures of oppression and hate and death.
The crowd that cheers Jesus' arrival does not understand any
of this, and the city welcomes Jesus in victory. But he has said that Jerusalem will be the
place of his rejection and death, and all the hosannas and all the palm
branches can’t hide the fact that he is redefining their concept of a
Messiah. He is from backwater
Nazareth. He walks to work, sleeps
beneath the stars, lives among the poor, and fills his calendar with the kind
of people kings don’t have time for.
Jesus is a different kind of sovereign. His Godly kingship is not about might, but
about mercy; not about power, but peace; not about retribution, but
redemption. And Jesus’ triumphal entry
into Jerusalem turns out to be not a parade for a king, but a death march for
the Son of God.
As the week
unfolds, Jesus’ preaching will become more pointed, his words and actions more
radical. He will overturn the
tables of the moneychangers in the Temple, threatening the powers that be, and
his actions will unite the religious and business leaders against him. He
will make the temple a house of prayer for all people; he will proclaim God’s
acceptance and life-changing love to the blind and lame; and he will welcome
the tax collectors and prostitutes into God's Kingdom ahead of the priests,
scribes and Pharisees. Jesus will fail
to live up to the expectations of the crowd and, in response, it will turn on
him. Slowly at first, and then with
increasing rapidity, the cheers will turn to jeers.
Jesus will stand
silent amid trumped-up charges, first before the council and then Pilate, as he
is mocked and beaten. He could
have turned from his path of radical obedience to God’s will, from his
self-giving love of us. Right until the
end he could have avoided suffering and death – having been abandoned by his
followers, he could have abandoned us; having fought the good fight and labored
long and tirelessly to bring a prodigal people back to God, who could blame him
for calling it quits on those who had quit him? And yet, Jesus chooses to endure it all so
that we might know the full height and breadth and depth of God’s love for us,
a God who would stoop to take on our common lot and endure what it means to be
human – right through to the end, a God who would model for us radical
obedience and self-giving love.
Behind him are his sermons; ahead is his suffering. Behind him are his parables; ahead is his
passion. Behind him are his suppers of
fellowship; ahead is his last supper of betrayal. Behind him, Galilee; ahead, Gethsemane. And the new monarch will be crowned with
thorns.
And how about us?
Even though we might profess our faith, many of us would like to tone
Jesus down, to make him a bit more accommodating to what we want to do and how
we want to live. Although we love to
dwell on Jesus' love and inclusivity, we would just as soon not talk about
Jesus' tough side, his penchant for calling us to repent and put aside sinful
ways, to let go of our grudges against neighbor and family member, to ease our
tight grip on our possessions and money.
We love the images of the little babe born in the stable and
the gentle shepherd cradling a lamb, but we would rather not face the angry Jesus
who storms into the temple. We praise
Jesus the ethical teacher and prophetic preacher, but we would prefer to close
our ears to his call to pick up our cross and follow him in his path of service
and self-giving love. We feel superior
to those bumbling disciples who kept getting Jesus wrong and who ultimately
abandoned him, forgetting that all too often we get Jesus wrong and daily
abandon him by the way we desert others in our society, particularly those for
whom Jesus had a special care, the poor and the oppressed and the marginalized.
To receive the joy of discipleship, we
must also understand its cost.
On the cross, Jesus looks humanity’s brutality and cruelty
square in the face and says, “I forgive you.” Even as we pound the nails into his palms and
feet, Jesus says to us, “Nothing can separate you from my love.” Even as we throw dice for rights to his bloody
clothes, Jesus promises to clothe us with radiant garments fit for a heavenly
court. Even as his arms are stretched
out wide on the cross-beam, Jesus freely offers to us an embrace of eternal
love.
It’s easy to be one of those people in the crowd, lining
that street in Jerusalem to see a king enter.
It’s easy to be an admirer. And
it’s easy to be among those who are disappointed when the king we envision
turns out to be something different.
It’s harder to be a follower, standing in the huddled group
at the foot of the cross. Because
following Christ means living against the grain. It means telling the truth in a world that
lies. It means giving in a world that
takes. It means loving in a world that
lusts, making peace in a world that fights, serving in a world that waits to be
served, worshipping in a world that entertains.
And it means carrying a cross in a world that crucifies
those who love.
The cross is the light by which we understand that Jesus has
changed all the definitions. Power,
success, even happiness – as the world knows them – belong to those who take
for themselves. But peace, love, and joy
are gifts from God, given to those who give of themselves.
So, each of us has a choice of what route we will take
between these two Sundays. We can choose
to be among the crowds lining the street and waving palms as Jesus makes his
triumphal entry into Jerusalem this Sunday and then skip straight to next
Sunday to be among those rejoicing at his resurrection.
Or, between these two Sundays, we can go with Jesus to the
Upper Room, to Gethsemane, and all the way to the foot of the cross. What will it be?
