This is the Day

This is the day that the Lord has made. For us. Because of us. It could be argued that out of all these high and holy days, this one is the most … human. “Well, of course,” you might think. This week is a divine and human encounter; in fact, we might argue it is THE divine and human encounter. This is true; but hear me out. This day, this slash day, this Palm/Passion Day is the most human day of this whole event.

Next Sunday is God’s day – the event is God’s, and we simply receive it like the gift that it is. Good Friday is the day where sin is exposed in all its ugliness – or it is the day when agape love is revealed in all its glory and wonder. Maundy Thursday is Jesus’ day (I realize they are all about Jesus) when he tries one more time to teach by example and by word what it means to follow him.

But this day is our day. Yes, it is the day Jesus chose to make a declaration, the day he claimed the ritual and the pageantry of triumphal entry and of royal enthronement. Yes, it is the day when he claimed the crown and the throne that was his from the beginning of creation. We don’t want to take away from that reality, that truth. So, if this was only Palm Sunday, then we could step back and let the parade pass us by and let our role be one of waving branches and shouting for salvation, which is what “hosanna” meant originally – “save us.” Many take that route, focusing all the energy on the Palm Sunday declaration and the festive potential of the triumphal parade. Yet somehow and somewhere within the time of worship on this day, there needs to be at least a pointer, a hint of what is to come. There needs to be an understanding of what this declaration cost the one we call the Prince of Peace.

When we create an event called Palm/Passion Sunday, then it becomes an event that tells the truth about us as clearly as it tells the truth about him. Where else could we in the space of one act of worship let collide our full-throated shouts of praise and our blood-thirsty calls for a painful death? “Hosanna” and “crucify him” should not be in the same week, let alone in the same hour, except for the condition of our souls and the ephemeral nature of our faith. And to declare that that was them and then and not us and now is to miss the point of the remembrance of the event. We were there. Or rather he is here, and this event is here. And one of the overriding questions for this day is, “Where do we stand?” On this parade day, where do we stand? In the place of judgment, where do we stand? When he stands before us, bloodied and beaten, where do we stand and what do we say?

I’ve never been in a parade. That doesn’t bother me all that much. I mean, who wants all the attention? The adulation of the crowds, the cheers and the waves, the throng lining the streets, wanting to be you. In that moment, you are the center of attention, the brightest star in the firmament, the man of the hour, the woman of the year. Who wouldn’t want to be in a parade?

Do you think that was why he did it? For the attention, for the adulation? Knowing what was to come, did he just want to soak up a little bit of honor before being subjected to the shame and suffering that was to be his lot? Who could blame him if that was the reason? And yet it doesn’t seem quite right, that even here on this threshold, the one who would soon be on his knees washing the dust of the city streets off the feet of those called his followers, would be so self-serving on that first Palm Sunday.

We’ve come around to the parade again. That odd little celebration marked by palm leaves and shouting in church. Maybe if you are one of that go-all-out kind of church, you even bring in a donkey to parade up and down the aisle of your sanctuary, while the trustees keep a wary eye on the trailing end, just in case.

So many questions come to mind as we read this story. Was this prearranged, or was it somehow mystical, or did the disciples commit grand donkey larceny? If the crowd was really as large as Matthew says, then who was the “whole city” asking the identity question from the fringes of the parade? Or was this the first instance of a “preacher estimate”? And how did Jesus manage to sit on a donkey and its colt at the same time? Was the crowd drawn by some sort of divine balancing act? And did the homeowners lining the impromptu parade route complain about the crowd pulling branches off the trees?

More importantly, however, the real question was, “Did they get it?” This was a message Jesus was trying to send. Matthew got it. It may have taken him some years after the fact, but he got it. That’s why he dredges up Zechariah’s words to help us get the point. The king who comes, not on a war horse, but on a donkey of peace. Did they get it?

They shouted “hosanna”; that implies they got it. “Hosanna” translates as “Save us!” So maybe they got it. Matthew says the crowd was large. Maybe they got it or wanted to get it, anyway. But then the city was clueless, “Who is this?” And maybe the city and the crowd were marching side by side; maybe the crowd was large but was made up of followers and city dwellers, some who got it many who didn’t. Maybe they were marching along waving their branches and shouting “hosanna” (which scholars tell us came to mean “hooray” or even “howdy” by that time, not the prayer of petition that it once meant. It is sort of like the word “goodbye,” which was originally a blessing—“God be with you”—but now is nothing more than a wave, a signal, a cipher). Their brows were furrowed, and they would turn to the one beside them and ask, “Why are doing this again?” And maybe the response would be a shrug. Maybe it would be, “That’s Jesus, the guy from Galilee.” “Oh, right” they would say, pretending to know who in the world Jesus from Galilee was.

Did they get it? It is hard to say. One thing Matthew is clear about is that disaster was right around the corner. If there was any hope that Jesus was using this event to soak up a little good will, it would be shattered by the very next verse. The parade didn’t end with handshakes all around and a few high fives for a job well done. No, it trundled all the way from the gates of the city to the temple where Jesus turned over some tables and knocked over some dove cages. It ended with a rumble. The self-proclaimed king of peace engages in an act of violence that left them shocked and confused. What peace was he announcing? What peace was he bringing? And if you are going to strike a blow, why not strike against the foreign oppressors and not the economic machinery of our own people?

Especially when that machinery will strike back. Wouldn’t it have been better to keep a low profile? Couldn’t he have just left a note, made a speech, wrote an editorial for the Sunday Jerusalem Times about the proper use of the Temple? Wouldn’t that have been better? Safer, anyway? Why did he have to provoke?

All kinds of questions come to our minds when we pay attention to the parade on Palm Sunday. Questions that, perhaps in worship this weekend, you won’t even attempt to answer. This is, instead, a listening Sunday, an experiencing Sunday, not an answer Sunday. Somehow you need everyone to come and hear what the parade turns into. To come and hear what steps are taken once he dismounts that donkey. To come and pick up a branch and see if they want to walk along in this parade; to come and see if they have it in them to shout “hosanna,” or if the word gets caught in the throat. Or mixed up with another word, one of frustration and anger, one of despair and hopelessness.

The same crowd that shouted “hosanna” on Sunday began to shout “crucify him” on Friday. How much more human can we be? This is the day we are revealed. This is the day our hearts of hope are broken. This is the day that the Lord has made.