Morning Prayer: Shannon Cook Choral Amen Hymn of Passion *Who Would Ever Have Believed It?* The Witness of Scripture: Matthew 21: 1-11 Anthem *O Sing Hosanna* Dave and Jean Perry. FCC Chancel Choir Sermon *Who Is This?* David Spain
Recorded on April 2, 2023
For those who like religion to be expressive, boisterous, and exciting, then today is a great day to be in worship; for those who like religion to be reflective, thoughtful, and pensive, then today is a great day to be in worship because both moods live today. To be sure, the day begins with a raucous parade, but on the other side of town something else is lurking. It is not palm branches waving in the air; it is orders for an execution that are being crafted. The church holds the tension of this day, for it is Palm Sunday and it is Passion Sunday—both/and.
Two thousand years of distance and obscure references to a minor prophet have dimmed the day’s dramatic tensions that Jesus orchestrates with his entry into Jerusalem. Matthew’s gospel makes it clear that Jesus is the conductor of this Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday symphony that plays in both major and minor keys, a movement in two marches. It is Passover, it is pilgrimage time, and the grand city of Jerusalem is more crowded than is its cosmopolitan normal. Those who are there witness two homecoming parades of a sort, and the question of the day is which homecoming parade to see, or maybe more importantly which homecoming parade is persuasive.
There is an impressive parade coming into Jerusalem from the west, from Caesarea on the coast of the sea. Jesus had been there with his disciples; in fact it was there that he asked them two of the great questions in Matthew’s gospel story—“Who do people say that I am?,” followed by “Who do you say that I am?” Perhaps it is the same question that is being reprised on this day, and every day of this week called Holy. But this is not Jesus’ parade that marches in from Caesarea to the west; instead, this is Pontius Pilate’s parade, and it is staged to make a statement. In those days it was not uncommon for ruling figures—emperors, governors, kings, military types—to stage a grand entrance into a city. It was a kind of ticker tape parade following a victorious military conquest, honoring a brave warrior, the people acclaiming the leader’s greatness, a religious ceremony in which the gods of war are thanked, culminating in a speech detailing the glory and might of the grand marshal of the parade.It is self-promotion of the highest order displaying imperial greatness, domination of enemies, supremacy of military might, power over and suppression of any opposition. The stomping regiments, the arms and shields of steel clattering, the banners waving high send a convincing message to the crowds at Passover—we are large and in charge, the major player on the world’s stage, and don’t you dare cross us.
On the other side of town, coming into Jerusalem from the opposite direction (which is more than a geographical statement), entering the great city from the east—the same direction magi had come from who went beyond the grandeur of the palace to a humble dwelling to find royalty worthy of adoration—Matthew writes Jesus orchestrates a brilliant entry into Jerusalem. In some ways there are similarities to these respective marches. Absent a military victory, there had still been triumphs over disease, injustice, inequities, biases and bigotries. Jesus was the elevated figure and there were crowds lining the streets shouting their approval. There was a religious ceremony of sorts but it did not prop up the gods of war instead it upset the tables of propriety. And there were speeches that circled around the central figure who rode in, but there was a decidedly different tone to what was said. Jesus orchestrates a parade paradoxing Pilate’s promenade. Jesus presents another parade, and we ponder their differences.
Jesus comes in from the east, from the Mount of Olives and those who might have spent their morning devotional reading from the minor prophet Zechariah would not miss the symbolism that this how God’s final push for a new creation begins—the old order is soon to be overthrown and a new reign will begin. While governors and emperors might not have been well-versed in that symbolism, each had staff members who knew what Jesus was doing—not coming in so much as a political figure but as the One who would usher in a whole new way of being. The royal advisors probably saw it as a longshot, but you can’t be too careful with a big crowd in town. If people missed the meaning of where Jesus’ parade was organized, they certainly heard what the crowd was shouting. We said those same words when we gathered for worship today—“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” It is a liturgy proclaimed at a coronation, serving notice that a new reign is beginning.For those who had neither read from a minor prophet nor sung the morning psalm, Jesus makes it obvious with the way he rides into town. Matthew says there are two statements being made—a colt that is traditionally used in the coronation of Israel’s kings and a donkey which is a humble beast of burden.Jesus rides in, his own feet barely clearing the ground as the hooves of his humble mount softly pad the crowded streets —a bunch of common folk and children without swords and spears but with palms torn from trees and garments lifted from backs providing a makeshift carpet for this One who rides in, this One who is doing God’s bidding and not Rome’s.“Hosanna” they shout which is not so much glory to the One riding in but “save us now,’ which most everyone has shouted at one time or another, but which seems particularly surprising given that the One they are hailing as king has trod the dusty road not in the confines of a plush carriage but on sandal worn feet; has spent his years not reclining on silken sheets and the soft berth but travelling to places of need in the day and having nowhere to lay his head at night; has given his life not to courting the rich and famous but to healing the outcast and wounded; has assembled as his entourage not the pedigreed and the credentialed but the fisherfolk and the tax gatherers—men and women who were rarely admired and more often scorned.This is the kind of parade Jesus orchestrates for his entry into Jerusalem—a parade of humble dominion. The two rhythms of the day live in tension with each other. Brian Maas has written, “Half the people are wondering with clear rationality, ‘Why provoke the mighty Romans to action by showering such attention on an itinerant preacher?’ while the other half are wondering with inspired piety, ‘How can we withhold our praise when God is clearly acting in our midst?’ (The Christian Century, April 2023, p. 22) Is this really a threat? Apparently, because like Herod 30 years earlier had responded when magi entered from the east, so now when Jesus enters from the east, the parade of hatred responds with its deathly march, for this one from a small, backwater town in Galilee will soon feel the full force of Rome’s trampling boot. What is Rome afraid of? What does Rome fear losing? What is being preserved by getting rid of Jesus?
For all the orchestration that plays in the fullness of both major and minor keys, the parade symphony begs a critical question—“Who is this?” Is Rome the major chord and Jesus the minor? “Who is this?” Jerusalem wants to know, because this orchestration of opposing entrances, according to Matthew, has the city up in arms and the question becomes what kind of arms will rule? “Who is this?” and all these years later the question still hangs in the air on Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday.
Who is this? There were some who, references to minor prophets and major psalms and his choice of transportation notwithstanding, were convinced Jesus was in fact about to storm the palace and kick out the Romans with an army of angels that would send the Roman legions whimpering into the hills forever. When that did not happen, when Jesus told Peter to put away his sword only a few days later, well there was hardly anyone left who had been there at the Palm Sunday parade. Who is this?There were some who had been on the receiving end of a miraculous meal or an unexpected healing, some who had watched as he had taken their little children into his arms and taught his disciples a lesson about what true greatness looked like, some who had been treated with a dignity that conveyed their divine goodness when others only treated them like worthless nobodies. As good as all that was, when he went to Jerusalem to say that religion encompasses not only the individual but also the community, that faith is personal but never private, that mercy without justice and forgiveness without restoration only maintains the status quo and the dominant powers—when he said all that, there were many who could not go that far, and by Friday ‘hosanna’ had become ‘it is more expedient for one to die.’ Who is this? Matthew tells us, as Jesus had said before he entered Jerusalem, that he is one whose love has a cruciform shape—not a cross demanded by a God who cruelly requires compensation and satisfaction, but a cross whose shape is compassion for those who are hurting, a cross that comes when the prophetic confronts the inequity, a cross that is shaped by turning the other cheek, by giving to those who cannot give back, by advocating for those who have no voice, by working for redemption when mistakes have been made, by sitting quietly with someone who is hurting, by offering love instead of vengeance, a cross that reminds us God suffers with those who hurt, a cross that transforms hatred into hope and revenge into reconciliation.
“Who is this?” Jerusalem was asking so long ago, and Matthew’s gospel proclaims--“This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee,” and we can imagine a variety of responses. “So what,” some said. “What’s the big deal,” others observed. “What makes him so special,” some asked. “Who does that guy think he is,” others scoffed. The symphony Jesus orchestrates strikes the major and minor chords. It is all there, and Matthew invites us to transpose the music, so that the parade entering from the East strikes the major chord and the parade entering from the West becomes the minor chord. How we play the music may come down to how we answer Matthew’s question—“Who is this?”